Page 42 of Captured Onyx

I respond with an enraged glare, but keep my mouth shut.

"You said you wouldn't touch me tonight," I remind him impulsively.

He smiles, shaking his head while his hand moves closer to my core, threatening to break his promise. But just before the tips of his fingers reach my sensitive lips, he stops.

Our eyes meet in a silent stare, each trying to read the other without speaking. But it seems that the understanding gained from our wordless exchange is one-sided. I fail to read his expression entirely, losing myself in the attempt to hear words that aren't spoken—while I feel as if he looks right into my soul. I get distracted by the salient tattoo at the side of his skull, breaking eye contact to follow the twists and turns of the black lines beneath his hazel brown hair.

He recognizes my diversion for what it is, a defeat on my part. He won. He's better at this, more experienced and more secure in what's happening between us. At first, I don't even notice the way he moves his hand toward my center, barely grazing my skin before he gets a hold of the rope.

A sigh that resembles a heartfelt moan escapes my lips when he pulls at the rope ever so slightly, before letting it go again. He repeats the motion, the friction of the rough rope causing my clit to swell with yearning.

"Look at that," he whispers, his gaze sidling down to my lap. "I don't have to touch you to prove my point. You're gushing all over my rope, you little slut."

The moan that flees my lips this time is laced with desperation. I'm angry at him. I'm angry because I know he's right. I'm angry because he called me a slut—and I liked it.

What is wrong with me?

I'm angry at him because he's doing all of this to me without breaking his promise. He's not touching me, not really.

And yet I find myself grinding against that goddamn rope he draped between my legs, unable and unwilling to stop myself from taking even more pleasure from this.

His dark chuckle only worsens my outrage. I try to shut it out by closing my eyes and turning away from him.

"Sure, you don't like this," he mocks me. "You don't like this at all."

"Shut up," I seethe.

The words depart my unruly mouth before I can think—and I regret them a moment later.

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