𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑨 𝑴𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑵𝑻, 𝑰 𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅, 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒃 𝒐𝒇𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒅. The dim light of the bedside lamp cast a warm, golden hue over his bare skin, accentuating the curve of his shoulders and the defined lines of his back. His movements were deliberate, each step purposeful yet unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world.
The room felt alive, charged with an unspoken tension that thrummed in the stillness. Shadows danced on the walls, flickering faintly with each shift of the curtains as the night breeze whispered through the slightly open window. The faint scent of cedarwood and the lingering traces of his scent mixed with the crispness of the cool air.
Without a word, he reached for my hands, his fingers warm and firm as they wrapped around mine. He guided me across the plush carpet, its fibers soft against my feet, to the small armchair tucked into the corner of the room. The chair, upholstered in dark, worn leather, creaked softly as I sat. It was cool beneath me, its surface contrasting with the heat radiating from my skin.
The space around us felt smaller, more intimate. The room's muted tones—deep grays, soft creams, and the occasional dark wood accent-seemed to fade into the background, as though the walls themselves leaned in to witness what was about to unfold.
My heart raced, the steady thrum of blood coursing through me heightened by his quiet command. There was something undeniably intoxicating about his sudden shift in control-an unexpected edge that left me aroused and utterly intrigued.
Rowan Chandler was many things, but submissive was rarely one of them. He thrived in chaos, a master of unpredictability, always keeping me guessing, always one calculated step ahead. It was one of the many ways he both infuriated and fascinated me. Yet here he was, kneeling before me, his sharp grey eyes locked onto mine with a blend of vulnerability and defiance that sent a shiver coursing through me.
The room seemed to hold its breath, the muted glow of the bedside lamp casting soft, golden light over his features. His jaw was tight, his expression resolute, but there was something in the way his shoulders held a slight tension, as if this moment cost him something to give. The contrast between his usual dominance and this unspoken surrender coiled a delicious tension low in my stomach, sharp and electric.
