Ruby Sinclaire knelt before him — not out of submission, but out of power, reverence, and desire. Her lips curved in a knowing smile, the kind that made a man forget his own name. ManFury sat breathless, muscles tense, heart thudding like a war drum in his chest. She traced her fingertips along his thighs, slow and teasing, her gaze never leaving his. When she leaned in, it was with a kind of grace that made time hold its breath. Her mouth, soft and warm, found him with a tenderness that burned. Each movement was deliberate, patient — like worship, like art. She read his body like a favorite novel, responding to every shiver, every groan, until he was unraveling in her hands, undone by nothing more than the heat of her devotion. And when he whispered her name, rough and full of gratitude, Ruby only smiled — because she already knew.
