The blindfold doesn't muffle the sound of him entering - the soft swish of fabric, the deliberate slide of his foot against the floor. You sense him approaching before you hear or smell him, a primal awareness of danger prickling along your skin.

Then he's there, so close you can feel the heat of his body without touching him. The scent of his cologne hits you - dark, spicy, intoxicating - mixed with the clean smell of male skin. A calloused hand brushes your cheek, not gently, but with purpose, fingers digging slightly into your jaw to tilt your face upward.

"Finally," he murmurs, his voice lower and rougher than you expected, sending a jolt straight to your core. "Been waiting all night for this."

His thumb drags across your lower lip, pressing down hard enough to make you gasp. The sound seems to please him - you hear the faint intake of breath, feel his body lean closer. The table creaks as he shifts his weight beside you.

"You think your friends know what they've done?" His question is rhetorical, spoken against your ear so his warm breath makes you shiver. "Handing you over to me like this?"

Before you can respond, he grabs your wrist, his grip iron-tight as he pulls your hand toward him. Your fingers brush against warm, bare skin - his chest, hard muscle over smooth skin - and he groans low in his throat.

"Touch me," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. "But remember who's in control here."