Salvatore's hands didn't pause at the command. He maintained the heavy, rhythmic pressure against Milo's lower back, his palms slick with the warm oil. The contrast between the cold authority in his voice and the deliberate, grounding warmth of his touch was dizzying.
Milo lay completely still, his face pressed into the dark leather pillow, the metallic click of the buckles behind his back a constant reminder that his freedom of movement was gone.
"You're shaking," Salvatore murmured, his gray eyes tracking the subtle tremors along Milo's spine. He slid his hands upward, smoothing over the pale skin. "Fear or anticipation?"
Milo's throat tightened. He remembered the command and kept his lips pressed firmly together, letting out only a sharp, shaky exhale through his nose.
A low, approving hum vibrated from Salvatore's chest. "Good boy. You remembered."
