The tension between them was palpable, like an electric charge crackling in the air.
Abigail's hands moved slowly and deliberately as she cleaned Christopher's thighs. She was in no hurry, seemingly content to prolong his agony. Christopher's eyes followed her every movement, his desire plain in his gaze.
"Fuck…" He groaned under his breath. It was nothing but torture for him. He wanted to feel her, to sink into her depths, but she was in the mood to play with him.
She was a master of manipulation, using her touch to drive him wild with desire. He felt putty in her hands, helpless to resist her charms. And yet, even as he writhed in sexual torment, a part of him was grateful for this reprieve. This moment of quiet intimacy was a balm to his soul.
