The calloused fingers at the nape of Dean's neck tightened—not with cruel force, but with a heavy, immovable authority that locked him in place.
"Look up," the voice repeated.
It was a dark, gravelly baritone that seemed to hum through the floorboards and vibrate directly in Dean’s chest.
Dean’s chin was tipped up by a broad thumb pressing firmly beneath his jawbone. Even behind the padded silk of the blindfold, he felt the sheer physical presence of the man standing over him. The air around the Top radiated a suffocating, possessive heat. He smelled of polished saddle leather, cold night rain, and a distinct, smoky note of high-end bourbon—a scent so hauntingly familiar it sent a sudden, confused prickle of panic down Dean's spine. But before his overworked brain could trace the famili
