The violent echo of Malcolm's deafening scream seemed to linger in the vast, quiet space of the master bedroom, vibrating against the reinforced glass walls. The heavy tension in the room was almost suffocating.
Malcolm stood three steps away from the bed, his broad, muscular shoulders heaving as he drew in ragged, shallow breaths. His hands tightly gripped the edges of his ruined, unbuttoned pajama shirt, his knuckles stark white in the dim light. He was trembling from head to toe, a fine sheen of cold sweat covering his sculpted chest. Below his waist, his thick, masculine shaft stood fully engorged and completely uncovered, the tip heavily glistening with the thick drop of pre-coital fluid that he had forcefully, violently denied from erupting at the very last millisecond. He looked entirely like a man who had just barely escaped an absolute structural collapse, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and wild with a profound, defensive terror.
