Page 31 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

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Perspiration beaded allalong her hairline, the vein in her neck throbbing impossibly fast. Her warm breath caressed my skin, and I wanted to feel more of it. I wanted her rapid breaths to kiss my neck while I fucked her, hear her gentle moans as I rocked her body toward a release, and watch her come apart beneath me.

“You’re going to do something for me.”

Her eyes glanced back at me in question.

I slipped my hand from between her legs and placed my finger on her mouth as I hungrily stared down while I coated her bottom lip with her glistening arousal. “Ask me.”

Her lips parted.

“Ask me what you’re going to do for me.”

She swallowed, her throat bobbing. There was a war raging inside her. It was there, in the way she looked at me with equal parts hate and desire. Even for her it was undeniable, this fucking connection we shared long before she laid eyes on me.

She cleared her throat, brushing a curl from her face. “What am I going to do for you?”

I shot her a smug grin. “So glad you asked.” I stepped back and strolled to the closet without taking my eyes off her while she kept still with her back against the wall. Either she was too scared to move, or too intrigued to look away.

Her eyes widened when I revealed the cello—and I wondered whether it was surprise or excitement that swirled in her eyes when she gazed at the instrument.

“You are going to play for me.”

Her gaze snapped up to mine. “You know I can’t.”

“You can. And you will.”

“Elijah—”

“Sit.”

She frowned, snapping her mouth shut in a clear display of defiance.

I moved the navy-blue velvet ottoman with my foot and gestured toward it. “Sit down.”

“I can’t—”

“Sit the fuck down, Charlotte.”

Her chest rose as she took a deep breath, her eyes uncertain as she stepped closer, one hesitant step at a time. It took every ounce of my self-control not to grab her, kiss her, consume her. The nightgown she wore fanned around her legs, the white silk accentuating her innocence and classic beauty. To me, Charlotte was the personification of classical music—an entire fucking orchestra on her own, able to make me feel things a man like me never should.

As she settled on the ottoman, I held out the cello, and she took it from me with an unsteady hand, staring at it as if she feared it. Like she feared whatever was about to happen next.

I pulled a scarf from one of the drawers, lacing it through my fingers while she watched me intently, too afraid to look away.

“Just do exactly as I say. Understand?”

“I can’t—”

“Understand?” I raised my voice. Demanding.

She nodded in submission, but her eyes burned with an inner fight that tempted the fuck out of me. My life consisted of power, dominance, breaking people’s souls. And with her, the thought of taking her fight, her strength, and owning it made my blood hum with excitement.

I placed the scarf over her eyes, tying it at the back before dragging my fingers down her curls. Soft, smooth, a fucking vision clutched in my fist.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m giving you what you need to play for me.” I dragged my thumb along the arch of her top lip. “Darkness.”

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