Page 11 of Taken in the Tree Farm
"Is that any way to talk to your captor, sugarplum?" I ask, voice dark with amusement.
She glares at me, defiant even now, and tries to headbutt me.
I catch her chin with my free hand, forcing her to look at me. "Careful. I like the fight, but I won't let you hurt yourself."
"Let me go," she says again, but her voice has changed. It's still demanding, still fighting, but now she’s breathless.
"No." I press closer, letting her feel every inch of my body against hers. Letting her feel exactly how much I want her, how hard I am. "Not until I'm done with you."
Her eyes widen, and I see the moment she feels my erection pressing against her stomach. She goes still, just for a second.
Then she starts fighting again, harder this time, desperate. But her body betrays her—I feel the way she arches slightly into the pressure, the way her breath comes faster, the way her nipples have hardened beneath the thin bodice.
I grab both her bound wrists in one hand and pin them above her head against the tree. The position arches her back, presses her breasts toward me, and makes her completely vulnerable.
She's breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, rhinestones catching light with each movement. The red glowfrom the lights wrapped around the tree paints her skin in crimson.
My dark fantasy.
"You're so beautiful like this," I murmur, my free hand trailing down her raised arm, along the side of her breast, down to her waist. "Trapped. Desperate. Fighting even when you know you can't win."
"I hate you," she gasps.
"Liar." My hand skims lower, over her hip, gathering the torn tulle of her skirt in my fist. "Your body is telling me something very different."
I press my thigh more firmly between her legs, and she can't stop the moan that escapes. The sound is tortured, like it was ripped from her against her will.
"That's it," I encourage, grinding my thigh against her core. "Stop fighting what you feel."
"No." But she's moving against my thigh now, just slightly, her hips rolling in a rhythm that's pure instinct. "No, this is wrong. You're?—"
"What?" I lean in, my mouth hovering just above hers. So close I can feel her breath. "What am I, sugarplum?"
She stares at me, and I see so many emotions warring in her eyes. Fear. Arousal. Confusion.
"Tell me," I press, my hand sliding higher under her tulle skirt, fingers brushing the inside of her thigh. "What am I?"
"A monster," she whispers, but her legs spread wider, giving me better access.
I smile darkly. "If I'm a monster, what does that make you? The one who's getting wet for me despite everything?"
Her face flushes with embarrassment. My fingers trail higher, teasing, and I feel the heat of her even through the thin panties beneath the costume. She's soaked through. Absolutely drenched.
"This," I say, pressing my fingers against her through the fabric, "tells me everything I need to know about what you want."
She whimpers, and her hips buck involuntarily against my hand. She's so responsive. Every touch makes her react, even as she tries to fight it.
I press harder, feeling how her body trembles, how close she is to giving in completely. Just a little more pressure, a little more friction, and she'd come apart against my hand.
But not yet. Not like this. I have plans for her first orgasm tonight.
I pull back slightly, and she makes a sound of protest that she immediately tries to smother.
"See?" I murmur, leaning in so my lips brush her ear. "You don't want me to stop. You want me to keep going. You want me to touch you properly and make you come so hard you forget why you were fighting."
"No," she says, but it's weak. Unconvincing.
"Yes." I release her wrists and bring the Christmas lights up between us. "But first, I'm going to decorate you properly."
