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The basketball player had just finished practice, still dripping with sweat, that tall, powerful frame pumped and glistening under the locker-room lights. Muscles swollen from hours of drills—thick arms, broad chest, rock-hard abs, long powerful legs. Every inch of him looked sinfully hot, skin flushed, nipples tight and sensitive from the cool air hitting his bare torso.
Then the stranger struck.
No warning. No chance to fight. One moment he was reaching for his bag, the next he was slammed against the wall, wrists yanked behind his back, thick rope biting deep into his muscular arms. The stranger worked fast, expertly binding him—chest forced out, shoulders pulled back, that perfect basketball-player body locked into helpless submission.
Every flex of those huge, sweaty pecs only made the ropes dig tighter.
His big, sensitive nipples stood out hard and exposed, aching in the open air as the stranger’s hands ran over them, pinching, twisting, claiming.
The player’s chest heaved, muscles straining uselessly against the bindings, sweat sliding down the deep cuts of his abs.
Every strained, sexy breath reminded him he was no longer free.
Tonight the stranger doesn’t need words.
Tonight this dripping-hot, bound basketball body—with those tight, helpless nipples on full display—is the prize.