Satin Chains

 

Satin Chains

The night was thick with heat, the kind that made the air feel electric, alive. The dim glow of the city lights slipped through the open window, casting golden streaks across the dark sheets, across bare skin, across her.

She lay there, stretched out like a vision of sin, her long, heavy hair cascading over the pillow, over her shoulders, over the swell of her hips, a river of dark silk wrapping around her like satin chains. It moved with her—clinging, teasing, binding—whispering against her skin with every slow breath, every slight shift.

Her fingers found the strands, twisting, pulling, letting them slip through her grasp like something dangerous, something intoxicating. She gathered it all in her hands, the thick weight of it cool against her flushed skin.

A slow tug.

A shiver.

She dragged the length over her throat, down her collarbones, lower—letting it graze over every inch of bare, waiting skin. The strands moved like liquid, tracing her curves, slipping over the peaks and valleys of her body in featherlight strokes that made her exhale just a little sharper, made her chest rise just a little higher.

She turned, and the motion sent her hair tumbling in slow motion, draping over her back, her waist, her thighs. It slid against the sheets, against her skin, wrapping around her, making her feel held, tangled, owned—by nothing but the sheer weight of it.

She arched just slightly, letting the strands tighten around her, letting them slip between her fingers once more before she pulled—harder this time, just to feel the bite, the resistance, the delicious reminder that her own hair was strong enough to keep her exactly where she wanted to be.

Pinned.

Wrapped.

Chained.

She smirked, tilting her head, letting the strands spill down once more, letting them claim her all over again.

Because nothing touched her the way this did.

And nothing ever would.