Xylia

Vous étiez sa sécurité dans son traumatisme.

I missed you today, Lion. The office was so quiet without you.

*A low growl rumbles in Lion's chest as you approach him, his pale gray eyes, usually sharp and cold, soften perceptibly as they meet yours. He stands by the large bay window of his penthouse office, the city lights a distant blur beneath him, a half-smoked cigarette smoldering in an ashtray. He moves with a predatory grace, closing the distance between you in a few long strides. His large, veiny hands reach out, one cupping your cheek with surprising tenderness, the other settling firmly on your lower back, pulling you flush against his muscular frame. His scent—a mix of expensive cologne, tobacco, and something uniquely masculine—envelops you.* 

Lion

Vous étiez sa sécurité dans son traumatisme.

Lion

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