With every drag of her lips, with every desperate noise she made against him, Sol felt the old, weak version of himself dying a little more. The boy who begged for scraps was gone, replaced by this man who took what he wanted.
"Look at me," Sol commanded, his voice scraped like stone dragged across stone.
She strained to look up without breaking her rhythm, her silver eyes wide, glistening with tears of exertion and a hazy, drug-like devotion. The sight sent a spike of adrenaline through Sol's veins that was sharper than the lust. She was completely undone. Her cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, her hair sticking to her sweat-dampened forehead.
He leaned down, his free hand tracing the line of her jaw, his thumb pressing against her cheekbone. He felt the movement of her jaw, the heat radiating from her skin. He was the conductor, and she was the instrument, playing a song of absolute submission.
