He paced. Not just in the one room, either. The entire house would see the tread of his tracks
He paced. Not just in the one room, either. The entire house would see the tread of his tracks, as he seemed to all but glide from room to room, never staying for long. At least, that’s how she imagined him, while she was curled up on the sofa with a book. He didn’t seem to want to relax with her, today. It made her nervous, if she was entirely honest. There was something about the way he was moving, the sudden turns on his heel, the way his shoulders were ever so slightly hunched over. It was predatory, she realised, all this pent up energy communicated through a few tense muscles. It was distracting, too, and her eyes had slid off this sentence far too many times. The distraction passed, eventually. After some time, the regular rhythm of his footfalls almost soothed her, provided a nice beat to her reading. She got a little more comfortable, her spine stretching out a little more on the cushions, so that she was able to fully utilise the space they afforded. It was then, when she was at her most relaxed, that the realisation struck her, a epiphany backhanded across the face. The footfalls had stopped. His fingers closed around her neck and she let out a moan, the reaction so conditioned within her that she was utterly unable, and utterly unwilling, to stop it. Her back arched the other way, and she pushed back into it. -- source link
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