Page 27 of Trapped

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispers. “And you’re all mine. I’ll give you what you want.”

And he fucks me mercilessly, hips plundering my thighs, his cock feeding my desire. Again and again, he hits my prostate, making me jolt and cry out in ecstasy until sweat drips over my forehead and I’m desperate for release. We both are, because I can hear him whimper, hear him pant.

“You feel so good, mon papillon. Look at you. At my mercy. Caught in my web.”

Piégé. Trapped. Willingly.

Arsène slaps me against my ass cheek, hard, and a jolt of pleasure zaps through my veins. “Hmm, you like that, pretty boy?”

“Oui,” I moan.

Without a single hesitation, he smacks my other cheek, and again, and again, until scorching desire overtakes my drugged senses and I hear myself babble incoherently.

“Oh, fuck, feels so good,” I whimper. “Again, again, please, Arsène.” Someone lifts my face by the chin, revealing two long, ringed fingers and a pair of dark eyes. A golden tooth. Arsène slaps me on my cheek, the skin feeling raw and burning, and I pant against the ringed digits, my useless, wrapped up limbs unable to stop him from gazing down at me. His smile is cruel, his other hand wrapped in my hair. I swallow, blink, then dart my gaze to catch sight of the cloaked brother huddled between Golden Masks’s spread legs, sucking his cock while he’s watching me getting fucked. He traces the lines of my parted, trembling lips with a finger, lets it slip inside for a brief wander, before it dips out and smears my saliva onto my mouth. And I… My cheeks flush hotly as Arsène lands another smack, and then his hand wraps around my cock. I cry out, my entire body trembling with need.

My eyes shoot back at Golden Mask, whose lips are parted as he lets out a groan. With one hand on the head of the guy huddled in front of him, and his digits curled under my chin, he climaxes. The sight nearly topples me over the edge, my cock pulsing with arousal.

“Please, please—” I whine. Arsène strokes my dick in short, fast movements that match his thrusts, and then his thick, dark hair intertwines with mine again, and he places his fingers next to where Golden Mask has his still on my chin and onto my lips. I open for him and his digits cup my jaw as he plunges deeper, faster.

“Come for me, mon papillon,” he growls, and his hand squeezes as he smacks his mouth onto mine. His tongue spears through the seam of my lips with an urgency that is climbing in my body. And then I tumble over the edge, crying out inside his mouth as I do, our moans swallowed, our need wrapped up in each other's arms. We come together, my cock pulsing inside Arsène’s palm, while he fills my clenching ass with his release.

10

ROBIN

Idon’t know how long we lay there. Minutes? Hours? My entire body feels limp, heavy and powerless. Somehow during this apocalyptic gathering I surrendered, and my limbs show the remnants. My mind has calmed down though, with those flickering shadows having disappeared altogether with the cloaks and masks from the other member of the brotherhood.

No, it’s quiet here, in the dungeons. Aside from the piano that still plays a sweeping melody, the place is peaceful. Cocking my head, I leave my right cheek to rest on the altar, eyes fluttering when I stare outside the window toward the blackness of the forest. In a deserted corner, a couple is making out, their masks discarded as they kiss each other passionately. I blink when I recognize the taller guy as Arthur Deveraux, heir to the Deveraux Empire. The smaller guy is barely recognizable, his long, wavy strands, much like my own, reaching his cheekbones and blanketing most of his face, while Arthur’s large hand cups his nape to keep him close. Régis Deveraux.

“My gift,” Arsène mutters behind me, the first sign that he hasn’t actually fallen asleep atop of me. He lets out a yawn and stretches his arms, his body still heavy on mine. Then he slips out of me, leaving me feeling vulnerable. “I’m going to unwrap you now, papillon, and then we’re going home. You must be tired.” The ghost of his own raspy tone confirms that I’m not the only one who could use some sleep here. Lowering his head, he surprises me by pressing his firm, warm mouth on every single centimeter of skin he releases from the brilliant thread, soothing and warming my flesh once more. “You did really well,” he purrs, followed by a lick and a nip. “So, so well.”

When my hands are free, he takes his time rubbing my wrists and forearms, before dropping a slow kiss on each of my palms. Then he continues releasing me from his ropes. “You have entered the world of the Alpha Fraternarii,” he muses, then grasps my chin between two fingers and turns my face over my shoulder to look at him. His gaze is dark, wicked yet gentle. “I love how you let my brother play with your mouth.”

Searching his gaze wildly, I stammer, “Brother? As in, your brotherhood brother, or your real brother?”

Arsène huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as if I just made a good joke. Leaving me flicking through my memory as to if there has been talk of another de Noailles at college. Not that I can think of, but that doesn’t mean shit.

“Well? Answer me.” Annoyance bubbles to the surface in less than a few seconds. “Is he your flesh and blood?”

Arsène grabs me by my hair and yanks my head back until I bump against his chest. My legs are still tied up, but I use my hands to tear and dig. “And what if he is? You were sweet to him.”

“Untie me at once,” I snarl instead.

“Uh huh, this takes time, pretty boy. Time that I intend to take if it makes you feel good.” Uncapping a bottle of oil—almond of some sort by the smell of it—he starts massaging my hands and wrists with a slow, unyielding motion.

Someone chortles, and I momentarily freeze, taken aback by the laughter that sounds as if it’s coming from an entirely different scene. Like we’re in two separate movies.

It’s the pianist. He’s blindfolded, his black suit jacket discarded, the collar of his white shirt open, the deep v-shape exposing parts of a naked chest. He’s sitting at the piano, his fingers on the instrument. Those digits, roaming freely over the keys, held in control by another pair of hands, used like a willing ragdoll. The melody changes from that dramatic, gentle sound to something lighter, matching their mood. They are both laughing now, the blond guy working the musician’s fingers as he kisses his nape at the same time. He’s no longer masked, the silky material propped up onto his forehead instead. My eyes flicker.

I recognize them. They are one of the most popular couples of Saint-Laurent. Gaël Deveraux, the wicked cousin of the Deveraux twins. Realizing that they are all part of this brotherhood somehow makes the fight leave my body, paralyzing my snarky defense mechanism.

I should have known. These guys run the school. And apparently their families rule the country.

I can’t fight the shivers running over my body. When Arsène’s warm, oiled fingers return to my naked skin, this time rubbing my shoulders, I lean into his touch, fatigue threatening to weigh me down like a heavy blanket, making the remainder of my walls crumble at this man’s feet.

“Word has gone out to your family, Robin,” Arsène muses and his fingers dig into my skin, massaging my sore muscles.

A low rumble is the only sound that escapes my throat, muscles relaxing and mind finally calming down. God, this feels amazing.

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