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If he asked me to get on my knees at this very moment, I would.
I’m not one for TV, but this Witcher is hot as hell, and it’s my day off.
Henry Cavill’s tight buns in those leather pants are about the only thing that can distract me from thinking about Alistair Wilde and his insane offer.
I feel like clay in his hands, too easy to mold and control.
His touch burns like fire, but the more I fight him, the faster I melt.
This doesn’t feel like a job anymore. It hasn’t felt like a job in a while, but I’m having a hard time admitting that to myself.
As he looks at me, I’m pulled into his orbit.
