Categories > Original > Erotica > Bound in Shadows
A bitch that brought him water.
Malvolia appeared again with a chilled glass full of water, and Drystan had never seen anything so tempting.
As she stood in front of him, Drystan’s arms failed him. He couldn’t reach for the glass. He was numb.
Malvolia smiled, and Drystan wondered what she was thinking. His thoughts were interrupted by her warm hand on his chin, tilting his head up.
His mouth opened automatically, not needing any coaxing. Malvolia gently poured the cold water into his mouth, pausing only for him to swallow. She was so gentle.
Drystan was no saint when it came to women—he would be the first to admit that. His supposed type was busty blondes with no thoughts of their own—or at least, that’s what he had convinced himself. That was his father’s type, his friends’ type.
Yet, as Malvolia tended to him, there was a magnetism about her that he couldn’t ignore. This wasn’t just the simple act of drinking water; it felt intimate, charged with an unexpected electricity. Her focused gaze, the way her lips parted slightly as she watched him, and the gentle pressure of her thumb stroking his cheek were calming, caring, almost loving.
She was unlike anyone he had ever encountered. Tall, with an eerie elegance, she exuded a presence that was both unsettling and irresistible.
Caught up in these thoughts, Drystan closed his mouth tightly, stopping the flow of water. He had forgotten to swallow, and as he pushed her hand away—a little more aggressively than intended—he began to cough, the soothing effect of the water lost to the burning in his throat.
He tried to mumble profanities as he caught his breath, frustration and confusion mingling within him.
"I'm sorry, tesoro. Did I go too fast?"
Drystan had finally caught his breath and gripped Malvolia's wrist, still within reach. He stared up at her, a mix of emotions churning inside him. He didn’t like what she was doing to him, how she made him feel so vulnerable and confused.
He mustered everything he had, gulping deeply in preparation.
"Let," he croaked, his voice tired and scratchy. "Me out."
Malvolia appeared again with a chilled glass full of water, and Drystan had never seen anything so tempting.
As she stood in front of him, Drystan’s arms failed him. He couldn’t reach for the glass. He was numb.
Malvolia smiled, and Drystan wondered what she was thinking. His thoughts were interrupted by her warm hand on his chin, tilting his head up.
His mouth opened automatically, not needing any coaxing. Malvolia gently poured the cold water into his mouth, pausing only for him to swallow. She was so gentle.
Drystan was no saint when it came to women—he would be the first to admit that. His supposed type was busty blondes with no thoughts of their own—or at least, that’s what he had convinced himself. That was his father’s type, his friends’ type.
Yet, as Malvolia tended to him, there was a magnetism about her that he couldn’t ignore. This wasn’t just the simple act of drinking water; it felt intimate, charged with an unexpected electricity. Her focused gaze, the way her lips parted slightly as she watched him, and the gentle pressure of her thumb stroking his cheek were calming, caring, almost loving.
She was unlike anyone he had ever encountered. Tall, with an eerie elegance, she exuded a presence that was both unsettling and irresistible.
Caught up in these thoughts, Drystan closed his mouth tightly, stopping the flow of water. He had forgotten to swallow, and as he pushed her hand away—a little more aggressively than intended—he began to cough, the soothing effect of the water lost to the burning in his throat.
He tried to mumble profanities as he caught his breath, frustration and confusion mingling within him.
"I'm sorry, tesoro. Did I go too fast?"
Drystan had finally caught his breath and gripped Malvolia's wrist, still within reach. He stared up at her, a mix of emotions churning inside him. He didn’t like what she was doing to him, how she made him feel so vulnerable and confused.
He mustered everything he had, gulping deeply in preparation.
"Let," he croaked, his voice tired and scratchy. "Me out."
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