Page 7 of Captive Desires
Kisses over the place where I had fabric covering me fogs my mind. When his fingers touch my core, mine lose all dexterity, like he stole it to use against me. The pleasure ignites.
I try to focus on breaking the back of the knot, looking up at it. But as I push at the rope, Ian pushes a finger into my passage and my chin jerks down to see what he’s doing. All I can see is his salt and pepper hair, massive shoulders and as though he senses my watching him, his eyes snap open and regard me with something I can only parse as smug and knowing, before he withdraws his finger and thrusts it back in. Hard.
I jerk.
Oh god this feels so good. He’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Not with my own fingers or a toy. I think it’s the heat of him, but perhaps also him urging me on in a low growl that I feel as much as hear.
Focus, Cleo.
The knot. I have to concentrate on escape, even if it might leave me on the cusp of exploding. My fingers have no resilience. They push against the rope fruitlessly while Ian is all potency, so effective I struggle to remember what I’m doing beyond taking what he gives.
I’m chasing him now. Without my volition, I’m moving in time with his licks and finger strokes, my pussy throbbing. I’m so close. I can feel orgasm climbing.
Then it slips. The tension of rope-on-rope collapses and the coils fall away. I yank my wrist out. I’m free. Nearly. My two ankles will be the work of seconds with both hands.
I shift as I grasp down towards my leg and Ian’s rhythm is disrupted. He misses a beat and my clit screams at me as my heart stutters.
I reach out.
And slide my hands into his hair.
I break. The instant my fingertips touch his scalp, Ian unleashes himself. I have no idea what he does with his mouth or his hands, only that I’m coming so hard I think I almost pass out. The pleasure is overwhelming. I hang onto him, his hair in my clenched fists as wave after wave racks through me, all the way to the pads of my feet. I’m vaguely aware of Ian’s arm braced over my hips, because I’ve probably nutted him with the jerking of my pelvis.
I’m screaming, or sobbing, or something, but I don’t let go.
And the fucker. Doesn’t. Stop.
As the intensity eases and my body recognises it’s no longer under attack from pleasure, he begins the siege again. A gentle touch of his tongue to my labia. The smallest glide of his finger into me.
My knuckles almost fracture as I relinquish my grip, and he grunts an approval at the cessation of me pulling his hair out, which I concede was probably quite uncomfortable.
I let my eyes close, and relax, my fingers playing with the silken strands of his hair as he does exactly what he promised. He builds me to orgasm again. This one is more like ocean swell than a wave crashing onto the shore. It’s deeper and stronger, less splintering. It creeps up on me and spreads through my body like a drug. And when I’m done shaking, Ian lets out a sigh that sounds like utter contentment.
As he unties me, he leaves kisses where the rope has chafed, whispering that such beauty shouldn’t be marred. I’m too sated to think about what that means. Every cell in me is wrung out in the best way.
He pulls the duvet over us and gathers me into his arms. His chest is pressed to my back and his arm is casually over my side. I wriggle a little to get comfortable, ignoring that the movement brings us closer together. My eyelids droop closed.
His hand finds mine and covers it. Warm. Intent.
“I’ll wake and catch you if you try to escape, so don’t bother.” His voice is a rumble on my spine.
I’m his captive.
3
IAN
It worked.
My Cinderella girl is snuggling in my arms.
I’ve been awake for a while, well rested after sleeping for some of the best hours I have in a long time. With her nestled into me, I found peace even though the scent of her hair in my nostrils is simultaneously calming and arousing by turns.
One of my biceps is her pillow. The other is over her, shielding her. And she, the wicked creature, is moving into me whenever I shift. It took me a while to think of the right word. But my lass is a snuggler.
Both parts of that are true.
Cleo is mine, as surely as I’m hers. Six months without her. Four without even knowing her name. Then I found her, my pretty little assassin, working for another mafia. When I discovered her job, I laughed aloud. No soft princess, my wife-to-be. She is as deadly a woman as a man with a soul as black as mine could hope to seduce. The lass who tried to murder me.
