The air between them grew thicker, more charged. His body ached with need. The control she exuded was intoxicating, and he could feel his resolve breaking. “Please,” he whispered, his voice raw with longing. “Touch me.”
But she remained still, unmoving, as if to remind him that his desire had no bearing on this moment. She was the one who would decide when—if—he would be touched. Her smile, faint but knowing, sent a wave of heat through him, and he could feel the tightening of his chest as he tried to contain his anticipation.
Without warning, she reached out and took hold of the blindfold, slipping it over his eyes. The darkness was sudden, overwhelming. All of his other senses heightened. His breathing was shallow now, his pulse quickened. He could hear the faintest sound of her movements, but he couldn’t see a thing. His world was reduced to touch, sound, and scent.
His mind raced, every second stretched and drawn out, and still, she made no move to touch him. The waiting was excruciating. His whole body trembled with the need for her touch, but he was helpless in the dark, caught in the web she had woven.
It was as if she could feel his desperation, and she reveled in it. Every second that passed without her response was a reminder of who held the power here. The control was entirely hers. And he—helpless, blindfolded, and shaking—knew that whatever happened next, it would be on her terms. The thrill of the unknown, the anticipation of the moment when she would finally give in… or deny him completely… was more than he could bear.