Page 2 of The Captive
I nodded because there was no other answer.
On the dance floor, he held my hand and put the other at my waist, the gesture possessive, confident—like he belonged there, with me. His touch burned through the silk of my dress, branding my skin beneath. As we moved, I pressed closer than decorum allowed, feeling the hard planes of his body against my softness.
"What would your father think of what we're doing now? Consorting too intimately with the enemy," he whispered, his breath caressing my ear and sending shivers down my spine.
"My father would have no opinion," I replied, my fingers playing with the short hairs at his nape, feeling him tense at the intimate touch. "This is normal in our world. Except that with me, the choice is always mine." I smiled coyly. "Does Flanagan ever underestimate you?"
His hand tightened on my waist—a warning, a promise. "Chipping at boundaries, I see."
"Of course he does." I let my lips brush his jaw, relishing the controlled tension in his body, the slight quickening of his pulse beneath my touch. "Second-in-command but never the leader. The servant boy turned brilliant mind behind Flanagan's success, yet he always takes the credit."
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes—a glimpse of the beast beneath the civilised exterior. The sight made desire pool low in my belly, hot and insistent.
As our dance ended, my decision was made. The attraction between us was too powerful to ignore, too valuable to waste. What better way to understand the mind behind Flanagan's success than to see him stripped of his careful control, submitting to the most natural of urges?
"There's another … sort of gathering in the east wing. More, shall we say, exclusive than this one," I whispered, my lips almost touching his ear. "Few people know about it, but my father condones it, even though he thinks I'm none the wiser. If you're interested in seeing a little of what the O'Malleys are hiding behind these doors, come with me."
The last words were intoned as a question, which he wordlessly answered by offering me his arm.
The walk through the mansion's corridors was charged with anticipation. Each step increased the electric tension between us, until the very air seemed heavy with unspoken promises. I could feel his eyes on me—tracking my movements, memorising the sway of my hips, the curve of my neck. The intensity of his focus was akin to a physical caress.
We crossed several rooms until we stopped in front of a hanging tapestry. Finding the key in a hidden slot in the wall, I reached behind the fabric and unlocked the door there.
As we entered, we could see proceedings were in full swing—a modern bacchanalia where Ireland's elite indulged their darkest desires. The air was thick with incense, sweat, and sex. With semi-clothed and naked bodies writhing in shadowed alcoves and on plush divans.
"Welcome to the show," I murmured, watching his face for a reaction. "Each of these beds costs as much as a room at the Atlantis, in Dubai. All the kingdoms for a little depravity, hmm?"
His expression remained impassive, but his eyes darkened with an emotion that made my breath catch. Hunger … and something more. "Power and debauchery—no surprise here." Heturned to me. "But are you not concerned anyone will recognise you?"
I shrugged. "Why? What could they possibly threaten me with? That I was doing what they were doing? In my house? But then we also have these…" I reached up in an alcove in the wall and picked a couple of masks from a shelf. "Put it on."
"Fair enough." He wore his mask and I wore mine. His gaze travelled back to the scene unfolding in front of us, and he brought his hand to the small of my back to caress me in that sensitive spot.
I smiled, pleased by his composure even as I yearned to shatter it. "Most men are either shocked or salivating by now."
"I'm not most men." The way he said the words—with absolute conviction—sent my desire skyrocketing.
"No," I agreed. My nipples hardened beneath the silk of my dress and moisture gathered between my thighs. "You're not."
I guided him through the room, deliberately taking a path that showcased the most provocative displays. A woman bent over a leather bench, her face beneath the half-mask visibly contorted in ecstasy as one man played with her pussy. Then, he grabbed her hips and fucked her from behind whilst the other thrust his cock so far in her mouth that she gagged. Despite the face being partially covered, I recognised one as some mad cousin of the O'Brien's.
Then the other… hang on… did that cock belong to Patrick O'Brien? I believed it did, and Alexander's wide-eyed gaze flickered with recognition. He was, after all, married to Ronan Flanagan's half-sister. The O'Brien heir was both depraved and insane—everyone knew this, including his own father. That poor wife of his must be living in some kind of hell.
Next, a renowned politician sat on his knees—I'd seen him countless times and couldn't mistake that mole on his left shoulder—servicing a masked dominatrix. She had her legsspread open, ordering him to flick his tongue over her folds, pushing his face into her bare cunt whilst a woman I knew to be his wife watched, her dress pulled up to her waist and a leg flung over each arm of a stuffed chair. Her pussy was bare, and her face a mask of ecstasy as she touched herself, licking her lips. The sight of her husband submitting to the woman's demands had her coming in no time, her screams renting the air.
Three gorgeous women lay intertwined on silk sheets, completely naked, a beautiful tangle of limbs and sighs. These had no masks. Hired escorts, there to give a show. One had her face buried between the second woman's thighs, drinking her essence, whilst the third sat on the serviced woman's face, her hips gyrating as her pussy got a thorough licking. All of them moaned with pleasure as they took each other over the brink…
Alexander absorbed each tableau with the same measured interest he might give a business proposal, but I felt his pulse quicken when my fingers encircled his wrist. His desire was a living thing between us, barely contained beneath his civilised veneer.
We settled in a secluded alcove on a velvet chaise, positioned to provide a perfect view of the room whilst maintaining the illusion of privacy. Gossamer curtains partially concealed us, though anyone truly looking could see through.
"Is this where you try to extract Flanagan secrets?" Alexander asked, his voice dropping to that dangerous register I found extremely appealing, along with the hint of humour in his tone. "Seduce the second-in-command for information?"
"Is it working?" I challenged, sliding my hands inside his jacket, feeling hard muscle beneath fine cotton. My fingers traced his ribs beneath his shirt, exploring the strength contained in his frame.
He captured my wrist in a grip firm enough to remind me I wasn't the one calling the shots. His thumb found my pulsepoint, pressing lightly against the racing beat. "Your heart's beating rather fast for someone in your … position. The daughter of Connor O'Malley."
The pressure of his touch sent waves of arousal through my body. "Perhaps I'm simply excited by the danger you pose. The enemy here, in my territory, surrounded by my father's men…"
