Page 16 of Taken in the Tree Farm
"Not yet," he says, his smile dark and knowing. "You don't get to come until I say so."
The dominance in those words only makes me wetter.
He sits back on his heels, looking down at me with satisfaction. I'm spread out on his bed, panting and flushed, my costume in tatters, my body clearly desperate for him. I look like exactly what I am—caught prey.
"You're perfect like this," he says, reaching for the Christmas lights again. "But this will make it even better."
The lights flicker in his hands, and I watch with helpless fascination as he uncoils them slowly.
"These," he says, holding them up so I can see them clearly, "are going to look so fucking sexy wrapped around your skin."
My breath catches. "What are you going to do?"
His smile is that of a predator. "I'm going to decorate you and wrap you in lights until you're glowing. And then?" He leans down until his lips brush my ear. "Then I'm going to unwrap you properly and take everything I want."
A shudder runs through me—fear and arousal so intertwined I can't separate them.
"First, though," he continues, sitting back again, "I need you to do something for me."
"What?" My voice is barely a whisper.
"Take off that costume." His eyes gleam in the firelight. "Slowly. I want to watch."
CHAPTER 6
LUKE
Watching her struggle with the costume while her wrists are bound is its own special kind of torture.
She fumbles with the torn fabric, fingers clumsy from the velvet rope restricting her movement. The bodice is already half-destroyed from her run through the trees, rhinestones missing, fabric ripped, but she's still trying to maintain some shred of modesty.
I settle back against the headboard, the Christmas lights coiled loosely in my lap, and let myself enjoy the show.
Her face is flushed—embarrassment mixing with arousal—and she won't quite meet my eyes as she pushes the ruined costume down over her breasts. The fabric catches on her peaked nipples, and she has to wiggle to get it past. The movement makes those perfect breasts bounce slightly, and my cock throbs in response.
Patience. I've waited this long. I can wait a few more minutes.
The bodice finally gives way, sliding down to her waist. She's not wearing a bra—can't, with a costume like that—and now she's bare from the waist up, firelight painting her skin in shades ofgold and amber. Her breasts are full, nipples hard and begging to be touched, sucked, bitten.
Soon.
She pauses, breathing hard, her bound hands moving to cover herself instinctively.
"No," I say quietly. "Hands down. Let me see you."
She hesitates, and I can see the war playing out behind her eyes. But slowly, so slowly, she lowers her hands to her lap.
"Good girl," I murmur, and watch the way those words affect her. The way her nipples tighten further, the way she presses her thighs together.
She continues undressing, pushing the costume over her hips. It catches on the tattered fishnets, and she has to work it down her legs—a clumsy process with bound hands that leaves her panting with frustration. The costume joins the fishnets in a pile of ruined pink tulle and shredded nylon on the floor.
Now she's down to just her panties. A simple white thong, completely soaked through in the center. I can see the outline of her pussy through the wet fabric, evidence of how fucking badly she wants this.
My cock is so fucking hard it almost hurts.
"Those too," I say, nodding at her panties.
Her hands shake as she hooks her thumbs in the waistband. The moment stretches between us, charged with tension, before she finally pushes the fabric down and kicks it away.
