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I can feel it in the way his hands grip my waist—tight, almost bruising. Not careless, never that, but with the kind of simmering restraint that speaks of a storm barely held at bay. He’s lost the game we were playing, and now I’m paying for it in the best possible way.

Each movement is precise. Controlled. Punishing.

His rhythm is relentless, like he’s chasing something he can’t name. Like every push, every pull, is meant to undo the smug little smile I gave him just mo ...

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