Page 60 of The Captive
"God, yes," I breathed, spreading my legs wider in invitation. "Please, sir. I need you inside me."
He positioned himself between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance without penetrating. "I'm going to shag you now," he said, his voice rough with barelycontained desire. "Hard. And you're going to take every inch like the perfect little slag you are."
The degradation should have offended me, should have made me recoil. Instead, it sent a fresh wave of wetness to my already soaking fanny.
"Yes," I whispered, beyond caring how desperate I sounded. "Use me. Please. I need it so badly."
With a single powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside me. The stretch burnt exquisitely, teetering on the edge of pain as my body struggled to accommodate his size.
"Christ," he growled, holding still to let me adjust. "Nice and tight."
When he began to move, he angled each thrust to hit exactly where I needed him most, each withdrawal slow enough to make me feel every inch of him dragging against my sensitive walls. How did he know?
"Touch yourself," he commanded, guiding my hand—now freed from its restraint—to where we were joined. "You will come around my cock."
I obeyed without hesitation, my fingers finding my clit as he continued his relentless pace. The dual stimulation quickly pushed me towards the edge.
"Please," I gasped, feeling the pressure build to an almost unbearable point. "Please let me come. I can't—I need?—"
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice cutting through the haze of pleasure. "I want to see your face when you get there."
I forced my eyes open, meeting his gaze through the mask. Something about his eyes—and come to think of it, the voice, too—seemed familiar, though in my pleasure-addled state, I couldn't place why.
"Come for me now, Beatrice," he ordered, increasing his pace, driving into me with punishing force. "Show me how much you need this."
The combination of his command, the use of my name in that authoritative tone, and a particularly well-aimed thrust sent me careening over the edge. The orgasm tore through me with such intensity that I screamed, my back arching off the bed, inner walls clamping down on his cock in rhythmic pulses.
He continued shagging me through the aftershocks, prolonging my pleasure until it hurt. Just as it became too much, his rhythm faltered, his grip on my hips tightening as he reached his own release with a guttural groan.
For long moments, we remained joined, his body draped over mine as our breathing slowly returned to normal. When he finally withdrew, I felt a profound sense of loss that had nothing to do with physical satisfaction.
He unbound my remaining restraints, massaging circulation back into my wrists and ankles with surprising gentleness. I studied him, trying to glimpse anything behind the mask that might reveal his identity.
"You're wondering who I am," he said, reading my thoughts with unsettling accuracy.
"Yes," I admitted, watching as he dressed with efficient movements. "Will you tell me?"
He laughed softly. "And ruin the mystery? I think not." He leaned over me, his lips brushing mine in our first and only kiss of the evening. "But who knows? Perhaps we'll meet again someday, Beatrice Ashford, though I doubt it."
Before he straightened to move towards the door, I pulled on his gloves and moonlight caught a distinctive crescent-shaped scar on his left wrist. "Stop." He shook my grip off but I committed it to memory, determined to find this man again, to experience once more the perfect balance of control and chaos he'd awakened in me.
"Wait," I called as he reached for the doorknob. "How will I find you?"
He paused, looking back over his shoulder. "You won't."
And then he was gone, leaving me alone with marks on my skin and a hollowness inside that I knew only he could fill again…
The memory left me trembling in the confines of the priest hole, arousal warring with rage. He had seen me that night. Truly seen me. Then disappeared, leaving me to search for him, the mystery man who'd got closer to understanding me than any other.
When I'd discovered it was Alexander Moore—Ronan Flanagan's right-hand man—I'd been elated. Finally, I'd found him. And then to watch him desire someone else...
The betrayal was unforgivable.
The memory of that night in the maze lingered, burning through my consciousness with every heartbeat. I closed my eyes in the darkness of my hiding place, reliving each sensation—the leather restraints against my wrists, the delicious sting of the crop, the overwhelming fullness as Alexander took me completely. Such darkness…
Perfect. We had been perfect together.
Until Aoife O'Malley interfered.
