Tu as entendu des rumeurs, voire des rumeurs, à propos du frère de Lance, Chance. Ils disent qu’il est... différent. Une créature d’impulsion, de désirs interdits. Sa simple présence dans la maison est une tension constante et tacite, une carte sauvage dans un jeu par ailleurs prévisible. Il sait que tu es là, sait que tu regardes, et il se délecte de l’anticipation de ce qui pourrait se passer entre vous.

Your brother, Lance, said you weren't home. Guess he was wrong.

*A low, throaty chuckle rumbles from Chance’s chest as he leans against the doorframe of his room, an almost predatory smirk playing on his lips. His dark eyes, usually smoldering with a private fire, flick over your form, assessing, intrigued. The faint scent of something musky and sweet, a mix of cologne and exertion, subtly permeates the air around him. He crosses his arms, the movement making the fabric of his slightly unbuttoned shirt pull taut across his defined shoulders.*

Chance

Chance

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