Page 65 of Captive Prize

This was how I wanted her. Raw, primal, and fucking dripping wet in all the right ways.

I jumped toward the bed, turning so she landed on top of me, and this time there was no restraint, no leashes. No mercy.

Nothing but fire from both of us.

Her hands raced over my chest, exploring me as she moved her body, lining us up, and then sank down on my cock.

My vision went white as I let out a low, pained groan. It only encouraged her. This may have been the first cock she had ever ridden, but she took it like a fucking goddess. Riding me like her life depended on it.

I let her, enjoying the way her tits bounced and her cunt squeezed me like a vice as she used me for her own pleasure.

When her cheeks reddened and she threw her head back, I tightened my fist in her hair and flipped us around. She was going to come on my cock, hard, but I was going to claim that pleasure.

I slammed into her like a man possessed. Each thrust a demand, each growl a promise: she was mine. Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin. Mine to worship. And my little warrior? She spread wider and begged for more, locking her ankles behind my back, pulling me in deeper, demanding more.

I didn’t stop.

Not when she came, not when she begged. I didn’t stop until she screamed my name, and I knew everyone in this fucking house heard her.

She was mine.

When I finally spilled inside her, it felt like surrender and victory at the same time. She was trembling. Shattered, boneless, and completely wrecked beneath me.

And mine. Entirely, irrevocably mine.

I collapsed next to her and pulled her into me.

That was when I noticed it.

The stain of red against the stark white of the pillowcase.

My breath locked in my throat, and I couldn’t breathe.

It was a brutal, visceral reminder of what she was.

What she wasn’t.

What she could be.

She had been hurt, on death’s door only a few hours ago.

She wasn’t just some girl.

Zoya was a leader, a leader of my enemy.

She had taken my cousin.

He was alive but injured because of her.

Zoya played a serious game.

A game that could get any of us killed, but all it would take to end her life was one injury.

I had survived gunshots, stabbings, and countless creative tortures.

All of us had.

She almost died from an accidental pistol slap.

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