Page 5 of Capture Me (Capture Me)

And a second later, he does touch me.

Lifting his hand, he runs the back of his knuckles over my jaw.

I stare up at him, confused by my body’s instant response. My skin warms and my nipples tighten, my breath coming faster. It doesn’t make sense for this hard, ruthless stranger to turn me on. His boss is more handsome, more striking, yet it’s Kent my body’s reacting to. All he’s touched thus far is my face. It should be nothing, yet it’s intimate somehow.

Intimate and disturbing.

I swallow again. “Mr. Kent—Lucas—are you sure I can’t offer you something to drink? Maybe some coffee or—” My words end in a breathless gasp as he reaches for the tie of my robe and tugs on it, as casually as one would unwrap a package.

“No.” He watches as the robe falls open, revealing my naked body underneath. “No coffee.”

And then he touches me for real, his big, hard palm cupping my breast. His fingers are callused, rough. Cold from being outside. His thumb flicks over my hardened nipple, and I feel a pull deep within my core, a coiling of need that feels as foreign as his touch.

Fighting the urge to flinch away, I dampen my dry lips. “You’re very direct, aren’t you?”

“I don’t have time for games.” His eyes gleam as his thumb flicks over my nipple again. “We both know why I’m here.”

“To have sex with me.”

“Yes.” He doesn’t bother to soften it, to give me anything but the brutal truth. He’s still holding my breast, touching my naked flesh as though it’s his right. “To have sex with you.”

“And if I say no?” I don’t know why I’m asking this. This is not how it’s supposed to go. I should be seducing him, not trying to put him off. Yet something within me rebels at his casual assumption that I’m his for the taking. Other men have assumed this before, and it didn’t bother me nearly as much. I don’t know what’s different this time, but I want him to step away from me, to stop touching me. I want it so badly that my hands curl into fists at my sides, my muscles tensing with the urge to fight.

“Are you saying no?” He asks the question calmly, his thumb now circling over my areola. As I search for a response, he slides his other hand into my hair, possessively cupping the back of my skull.

I stare at him, my breath catching. “And if I were?” To my disgust, my voice comes out thin and scared. It’s as if I’m a virgin again, cornered by my trainer in the locker room. “Would you leave?”

One corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile. “What do you think?” His fingers tighten in my hair, the grip just hard enough to hint at pain. His other hand, the one on my breast, is still gentle, but it doesn’t matter.

I have my answer.

So when his hand leaves my breast and slides down my belly, I don’t resist. Instead, I part my legs, letting him touch my smooth, freshly waxed pussy. And when his hard, blunt finger pushes into me, I don’t try to move away. I just stand there, trying to control my frantic breathing, trying to convince myself that this is no different from any other assignment.

Except it is.

I don’t want it to be, but it is.

“You’re wet,” he murmurs, staring at me as he pushes his finger deeper. “Very wet. Do you always get so wet for men you don’t want?”

“What makes you think I don’t want you?” To my relief, my voice is steadier this time. The question comes out soft, almost amused as I hold his gaze. “I let you in here, didn’t I?”

“You came on tohim.” Kent’s jaw tightens, and his hand on the back of my head shifts, gripping a fistful of my hair. “You wantedhimearlier today.”

“So I did.” The typically masculine display of jealousy reassures me, putting me on more familiar ground. I manage to soften my tone, make it more seductive. “And now I want you. Does that bother you?”

Kent’s eyes narrow. “No.” He forces a second finger into me and simultaneous presses his thumb against my clit. “Not at all.”

I want to say something clever, come up with some snappy retort, but I can’t. The jolt of pleasure is sharp and startling. My inner muscles tighten, clutching at his rough, invading fingers, and it’s all I can do not to moan out loud at the resulting sensations. Involuntarily, my hands come up, grabbing at his forearm. I don’t know if I’m trying to push him away or get him to continue, but it doesn’t matter. Under the soft wool of his sweater, his arm is thick with steely muscle. I can’t control its movements—all I can do is hold onto it as he pushes deeper into me with those hard, merciless fingers.

“You like that, don’t you?” he murmurs, holding my gaze, and I gasp as he begins flicking his thumb over my clit, side to side, then up and down. His fingers curl inside me, and I suppress a moan as he hits a spot that sends an even sharper pang of sensation to my nerve endings. A tension begins to coil inside me, the pleasure gathering and intensifying, and with shock I realize I’m on the verge of orgasm.

My body, usually so slow to respond, is throbbing with aching need at the touch of a man who scares me—a development that both astonishes and unnerves me.

I don’t know if he sees it on my face, or if he feels the tightening in my body, but his pupils dilate, his pale eyes darkening. “Yes, that’s it.” His voice is a low, deep rumble. “Come for me, beautiful”—his thumb presses hard on my clit—“just like that.”

And I do. With a strangled moan, I climax around his fingers, the hard edges of his short, blunt nails digging into my rippling flesh. My visions blurs, my skin prickling with heated needles as I ride the wave of sensations, and then I sag in his grasp, held upright only by his hand in my hair and his fingers inside my body.

“There you go,” he says thickly, and as the world comes back into focus, I see that he’s watching me intently. “That was nice, wasn’t it?”

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