Locked Up With The New Cute Mistress

Sylvie leans in until her breath grazes his ear, the sound of her boot heel clicking against concrete the only clock in the room. Chains already bite his wrists, drawing the skin tight, yet the real restraint sits in her stare—black eyes locking his, daring him to blink first. She runs her palm flat across his chest, slow enough to feel his pulse jump beneath her fingers, then slides lower, tracing the line of muscle that twitches every time she stops short of what he wants. Her lips part like she might kiss him, but she only smiles, teeth flashing white against red, and backs off by a single inch. Sweat beads at his hairline; her fingers catch it and drag the moisture down his throat. She pushes closer again, body flush, the heat of her thigh pressing the ache between his legs without ever granting relief. Eyes never leave his. When she finally speaks, the word “no” lands soft as a whip crack, and the chains rattle once more as he strains against them, already lost.