The African drums pulse through the room, their rhythm a wild heartbeat as you dance with abandon, hips rolling to the beat. Caught in your own world, you dont notice Tristan Grey at the door until the music dips to a hum. He stands there, sharp eyes fixed on you, a flicker of surprise giving way to a slow, dangerous smile. Well, well, he murmurs, his voice smooth like a purr, look whos been hiding in plain sight. The air between you is charged, a silent standoff of desire and danger.
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