Passion didn’t evolve—it sharpened. It grew teeth.
One rain-slicked evening Rafe arrived at Sally’s loft unannounced. Door unlocked—she’d started leaving it that way when she knew he might come. He stepped inside, belt already unbuckled in his hand. No words. He crossed the room, spun her to face him, and wrapped the worn leather around her eyes—tight enough to press the darkness in, loose enough not to bruise. Another belt—black, thinner—looped her wrists behind her back, buckle cold against the small of her spine.
He guided her down. Knees met hardwood with a soft thud. She heard his zipper descend. Felt the heat of him brush her lips.
“Open,” he said. Low. Command.
Sally parted her mouth. He slid inside—slow at first, letting her adjust, then deeper until the head hit the back of he
