The slight tinkling of chain from her manacles gave her away. He had her on the run. It was just a matter of time.<br/><br/>His lips slowly drawing her nipple and that clip in and out of his mouth. His tongue painting sensation that would make a nun cry out in church. He was attacking her on two fronts, trying to prod her to get what she wanted and break her bitchy you can't touch this mode without once beating it into her.<br/><br/>She had to know that Tristan GoodFellow wanted her raw and open. He would not kill her soul or rob her of who she was. He would guide her into this. Take her to places she could only imagine.<br/><br/>He fanned the flames in her breasts. His touch alive. Her body hot. So hot she was burning the tips of his fingers. Jalapeno hot.<br/><br/>His hand found it impossible to stay in one place as she gasped and moved away. He kept it there and let her calm.  Enjoying her fear, her reaction. It showed she had good sense.<br/><br/>The tough guy was more a front to prevent anyone from looking underneath that hard surface. Or her shorts.<br/><br/>His fingers moved lower. Dipping into her warm cliff. Making lazy circles against her hiding clit. He was a piece of thin material from her pussy.<br/><br/>It was almost time to shed the shorts. When he felt her hips rock to the beat of his stirring. Then those shorts would drop in a pile around her feet.<br/><br/>For now, he tried to tease her smoldering fire into an open flame.<br/><br/>