Page 28 of Captured By Fate

Her body begs silently for relief. Her chest arches upward with need, her fingers clutching at the fabric of my shirt as though it offers a lifeline — a pathway to the release she so desperately craves.

My hand traces down her body once more, relishing in every quivering twitch and sharp intake of breath that I orchestrate. A moan ripples through the room as I slowly tease her folds again, taking my own sweet time to explore. Each touch is deliberate. Each stroke is calculated to drive her into oblivion.

Her breathing becomes erratic, her moans turning into throaty cries. But despite her desperation, I refuse to give in just yet.

"Patience," I whisper yet again, promising with a soft press of my lips against her trembling ones that the wait will be worth it.

With a deft twist of my fingers, I plunge deeper into her wetness, igniting a strangled gasp from her lips. My name tumbles from them like a hushed prayer; it’s music to my ears, spurring me on. This sweet torment was intoxicating — watching the way she writhed beneath me was a sight that would forever be burned into my memory.

Then, seeing the pleading look in her eyes, mirroring the fire burning within my own gaze, I finally relent. Slowly and purposefully, I start to move my fingers within her again with a newfound intensity. Her guttural cry echoes around us as waves of pleasure surge through her body, breaking over her like a storm.

“Let go," I whisper hoarsely against her ear, my own body thrumming with anticipation.

Her eyes flutter close as she trembles beneath me, barely hanging onto the precipice of pleasure. With a final, deliberate stroke of my fingers, I push her over the edge.

Her body tenses as she gasps out loud, riding the waves of pleasure that crash through her. It's an intoxicating sight—her eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a soundless cry of ecstasy and surrender.

As I softly withdraw my hand, her fingers tighten around mine in a silent plea. She pulls in a shaky breath and then another—each one a tremulous sigh of satisfaction mingled with exhaustion.

Kelley’s eyes focus on me and I see a change come over that perfect heart-shaped face.

“Shit,” she gasps. She leaps off the couch, pulling her jeans up.

She stumbles initially, her trembling legs struggling to hold her up, but she catches herself. The look in her eyes is pure panic, wild and uncontrolled. "I can't... I shouldn't..." she stammers, struggling to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions swarming within her.

I watch in stunned silence as she scrambles around the room, gathering up her discarded clothes in a hasty attempt to cover her alluring body. I feel a dull ache in the pit of my stomach, realizing that our passionate moment has come to a jarring end — the afterglow replaced by a painful emptiness.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, sounding utterly lost.

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder with a look that tears at my heartstrings.

"I have to go," she murmurs, before disappearing through the door, leaving me alone and unsated in the dim light of my library. Her haunting gaze lingers in my mind — those bright brown eyes filled with an intoxicating blend of fear and desire.

A wave of anger ripples through me as I stare at the empty library. I can still feel the heat from her body lingering on the couch beneath me — a cruel reminder of what had just occurred or rather, what had been abruptly interrupted.

As I retrace our steps, running my fingers along the backrest where she had clawed at it during our short-lived tryst, I grit my teeth against the rising tide of frustration. With every fiber of my being calling out for resolution, for satisfaction that she had abruptly denied us me, I find myself consumed with a need for revenge.

As I stand, the room spins slightly — a dizzying mix of desire and seething rage. The smell of her on my clothes, on my skin... it taunts me—taunts my sanity. So enticing, so alluring, yet so far away now.

Payback will be worth it for leaving me hard like this.

17

KELLEY

Istare at the woman in the mirror. I’m not sure who is staring back because it can’t possibly be me. Confusion mars my features even more.

I don’t know what’s happened to me over the past two weeks but I’m certain it’s done more than just changed my emotional outlook toward my captor. Not only do I crave his touch, when he isn’t around, he’s all I think about.

“Stockholm syndrome,” I mutter.

My life is turning into a live-action version of Beauty and the Beast. I’m trapped in a castle with servants who don’t want to help me. I think of Cogsworth, too scared to help the damsel in distress. But at least Belle had Lumiere and Mrs. Potts.

I have no one.

With a sigh, I turn from the mirror, disgusted with myself. My actions in the library this morning only fuel my confusion toward Jackson. I need to sleep it off. Pretend it never happened.

Dragging my feet over the cold marble floor, I make my way to the ornately carved four-poster bed that dominates my bedroom, an ominous monolith shrouded in the finest silk.

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