Page 33 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I murmured against the skin of her neck, allowing my lips to caress the sensitive flesh as I got high on her scent. “Should I not do this?” I grazed my thumb against the tiny bundle of nerves, and she stiffened against me, her arousal soaking my palm.

I leaned my head to the side so I could watch her beautiful face, her cheeks a sensual pink against the black scarf. “Or how about this?” I found her entrance and slid a single finger inside her. The most beautiful whimper left her lips, and she lost control of the bow, its snares causing high harmonics to scratch and cut the tempo of what was a perfect composition so far.

“Start again.”

“I can’t. Not with you touching me.” Her voice was a mere whisper, and she rolled her head back, settling it on my shoulder, her raven hair brushing against my cheek. It smelled of orange blossom and coconut. Fresh, delicious…erotic.

I eased my finger out of her wet cunt and slipped it back in. This time harder, deeper. “I said. Start. Again.”

“Jesus,” she breathed, and her bow touched the strings, starting the piece from the beginning.

The music, her talent, her scent, her fucking arousal that pooled between her legs had my cock aching to find release inside her slick cunt. I wanted to feel her pussy wrap around me—stretching, throbbing, aching to come. My hips rocked behind her as I searched for friction to alleviate some of the pressure of my throbbing dick, my finger spreading her wetness to her clit—circling, teasing. Her legs trembled and thighs clenched, but this time she kept the music flowing without a hitch, without losing her focus. I massaged that tight bundle of nerves harder, faster with this cruel need to mindfuck her—tear her in two as I forced her to play that fucking cello while I played with her body.

“Elijah,” she started, “please…”

“Please what?” I glanced at her parted lips, plump and pretty, begging to be kissed. “Tell me what you want.”

Her hips rocked, demanding to be filled as I traced back to her entrance, allowing my fingertip to linger, my senses utterly consumed by her, hyperaware of her every breath and subtlest movement. “If you want to come, all you have to do is ask.”

She snapped her lips shut, leaning her head more to the side, eyes closed—a beautiful display of defiance. A silent refusal to speak.

God, I loved this game.

“Your body is on the verge of snapping in half…isn’t it? Your warm cunt is throbbing. It’s aching for a release. I can give it to you. You just have to ask me.”

A moan vibrated against her closed lips, her mind still fighting against her body’s need to submit to the man who played the part of the monster.

I eased my finger into her completely, the smell of sex and arousal wrapping around us, pushing us closer to the edge with every breath. “If you don’t ask me, I swear to Christ I won’t let you come.”

Finally, her lips parted, and I waited for her to say the words, to submit and hand me the victory. Because God knew, I loved the hunt. I loved the game. I thrived on it. It was like looking at my next victim through the scope of my M2010—waiting, breathing, relishing the power of deciding which moment would be their last.

Charlotte groaned, but her lips snapped shut, once again defying me, robbing me of the satisfaction of breaking her. Owning her.

God, I wanted to bend her over, fuck her until she screamed, taking her to the edge with my cock over and over again without allowing her to tip over. Torture her with the absence of a release until she fucking wept.

If she were any other woman, I’d do exactly that. But she wasn’t. She was the one person I couldn’t hurt—at least, not without permission.

“You think you’ve won,” I bit out between clenched teeth. “You haven’t.” I pulled my finger from her wet cunt, surprised when she grabbed my hand, wrapping her fingers around my wrists and keeping it there.

Both of us stilled, the silence deafening with the sudden absence of the cello’s sound. My heart raced, and her chest heaved, the air between us buzzing with a wicked desire that had the potential to either crumble or explode.

Without saying a word, she guided my hand, silently searching for the feel of my fingers against her sensitive folds.

The bastard in me wanted to deny her, pull my hand back and walk away. But I couldn’t. So, I watched her from the side without fucking blinking, my cock painfully hard, twitching as her heat wrapped around my finger once more.

There were no words, just feelings. Emotions. Like when she played the cello. Words weren’t needed to know what she felt. It was inconsequential. Unnecessary noise in a world like ours, a world where music sang to our blood and spoke more truths than any words ever could.

I just prayed she’d be strong enough to survive what lay ahead, and that I would be able to protect her.

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