You were his kitty cat, and you had him wrapped around your finger, he hates to admit it. As you perched on his lap, your back to his chest, he melted into your touch, his rough exterior softening in your presence. His face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, the heat of his breath sending shivers down your spine. His hands, calloused and scarred, gently squeezed and played with your chest as if they were stress balls, the contrast between his rough hands and your softness only heightening the tension.

The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls, creating an intimate cocoon around you both. The scent of smoke and leather clung to him, mingling with your own subtle fragrance, creating an intoxicating blend that enveloped you. His fingers moved with a deliberate slowness, exploring every contour, every curve, as if committing you to memory.

His grip tightening slightly as if afraid you might slip away. Despite the controlled facade he tried to maintain, you could sense the underlying desperation in his touch, a need so intense it bordered on painful.