Kyle remained frozen, a statue of strained muscles and suppressed longing. Every fiber of his being was attuned to the weight of Ella on his lap. He was a man who prided himself on control—a necessity forged in the fires of his past—but Ella was a chaotic force, and even in her supposed slumber, she was dismantling his defenses piece by piece.
Beneath the fabric of his shorts, his cock was a throbbing, insistent weight. It pulsed in time with his racing heart, the head of his dick leaking a small amount of pre-cum that dampened the cotton. He stared at the television, the sounds of the documentary becoming a distant hum, replaced by the loud, rhythmic thumping of blood in his ears. He looked down at her. Her face was so serene, her lips slightly parted, her breathing a slow, rhythmic tide. He felt a wave of protectiveness wash over him, but it was warring with a raw, animalistic hunger.
