Page 58 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

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Buriedto the hilt inside her cunt was better than I imagined. Not only did it feel good, having her wrapped around my cock, but it felt fucking right. As if her body had been made for me. I chose to believe that, convinced that Charlotte was mine.

The Musician wanted to hunt and slice the throat of the fucker who tore through her virtue, claiming her first. But a part of me loved that I could fuck her the way I wanted to without being gentle, without worrying about hurting her. The only way I wanted to hurt her was having her body ache for me, her pussy soaked and swollen for my cock.

I pulled out of her and winced, my entire body alive with sensation, and I felt this primal sense of ownership staring at her swollen pussy creamed with my cum. God, it was the most erotic thing I had ever seen in my life, and I couldn’t fucking wait to be inside her again.

Charlotte collapsed onto her stomach, my red handprint still blooming on her ivory skin. It was fucking beautiful.

I lay down on top of her, her ass spooning against my cock. I brushed her hair, sweeping it to the side so I could kiss her shoulder. “You okay?”

She nodded, her eyes closed and lips parted, still panting.

I continued to pepper kisses along her naked back, caressing her skin with a single fingertip. She shivered, and I bit my lip. “You have five minutes to catch your breath and ready yourself for me again.”

Her eyes shot open, glancing at me over her shoulder. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Death by orgasm. Sounds like a good way to go.”

She writhed beneath me, trying to turn, and I lifted myself before lying down beside her, watching as she settled on her back. She pulled the sheet to cover herself, but I grabbed her wrist. “Don’t.”

Her gaze locked with mine, her cheeks flushed. “I’m shy.”

“Don’t be. Not around me.”

“Especially around you.”

I leaned in and kissed her, my cock twitching at the thought of her tasting herself on my lips. “You don’t ever have to hide yourself from me. Your perfection is breathtaking.”

I loosened her grip on the sheet, letting it fall beside her before weaving my fingers with hers. “Does it hurt?”

Her chest rose as she breathed. “Not today.”

I glanced in awe at her delicate fingers, knowing the beauty it could create. But, by God, I cursed the irony of having such enormous talent tainted with blight.

“Some days I’m able to forget about it completely.” She twirled her fingers alongside mine. “Other days I can barely hold the bow.”

I remembered the day she found out, the day her doctor informed her what was causing the pain in her fingers and hands. It was raining as if the weather were a precursor of the bad news she’d receive. But even through the storm and the rain, I could see her tears, feel her pain, and I almost slit her doctor’s throat that day. After she left his office, I stormed in and demanded to know what was wrong with her. It took a violent threat and a sharp blade to get her doctor to talk, but that was something I knew how to do.

Make people talk.

Her diagnosis gutted me as if it were my own. As if it was my love for making music that hung in the balance. That night at the Alto Theatre, I waited for her, sitting on the edge of my seat in the back row, shrouded with the familiar darkness. I wasn’t sure she’d come, and when she did, I felt the kind of relief that could mend a man’s soul. Only, she didn’t play that night. Instead, she just sat there on the stage with the cello between her legs. Not once did she lift the bow or caress the strings with her fingers. She remained still, eyes closed, and the neck of the cello resting against her heart. It was as if she created music inside her mind, feeling it in her soul without making a single sound.

It was one of the most powerful moments I had ever been a part of without her consent. We were worlds apart even though I was right there with her, feeling her, wanting to comfort her. But it pained me just as much as it did her because her music had become my heroin. My drug. My addiction.

Silence settled between us as we both stared at our joined hands. I silently vowed to get the world’s best doctors, spend every cent I had in the quest to cure this disease that slowly caused the beauty of my cellist to wither away.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, still staring at her fingers—hating that her talent was slowly becoming her worst enemy.

“I don’t need your pity.” She unlinked her hand from mine, and I smirked.

“Yet you expected me to accept your pity earlier at the dinner table.”

“That was different.”

“How so?”

“You were just a child. Both you…and Ellie.”

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