Bound by Lightning
The room was alive. Each surface, each shadow, each polished marble curve vibrated with expectation, as if the room itself was waiting, holding its breath. And Victor sat at the center, his body open to the raw radiance of the storm that raged around him. Lightning flashed in arcs across his tightly drawn, chiseled muscles, mapping out the seams of his chest and the hollow of his belly, etching him with momentary patterns of light and dark. Every bolt kissed his skin like ice, hot and personal, and his body responded naturally, each of his sinews tightening and relaxing to precision-synchronized beat with the energy that lashed at him. His raven-black hair cascaded in a lustrous fall over the shoulder, sweeping the acutest lines of his jaw, and his deep purple eyes contained the turmoil that lay around him with a devoted, half-knowing quiet, as if he might converse with the storm itself.
