Page 115 of The Freedom in Captivity

He grabs a small knife and holds it up to the light, inspecting it before turning back toward me. My thighs press together because, this time, I know he won’t hurt me.

“I did lose my mind,” he agrees. “I came down here with the intention of fucking you out of my head.”

He stops only inches from me, and I tilt my head to look at him and ask, “Yeah, and how’d that work out for you?”

“It didn’t,” he replies dryly. The knife comes up and he traces the cool metal over my cheek and my face toward my neck, following the dip. “It didn’t at all because something held me back. For all my desire to own your fear, I guess I didn’t want it after all. I couldn’t hurt you like that.”

“Even when you hated me?”

“Did I ever truly hate you?”

Neither of us answers his question as he slips the knife between my shirt and skin and begins slicing downward, his other hand gripping the bottom of my shirt to hold it taut. The shirt, with minimal difficulty, gets cut to the halfway point. It must be too slow for him, though, because he clamps his teeth around the blade instead and grips the edges of my shirt with either hand and rips.

My core clenches. Something about that was so fucking hot. Maybe all of it. Ripping my shirt away like it’s nothing, but also the sight of the weapon between his teeth.

He shoves my shirt to the side, leaving me in only the pants Della had left for me earlier. With the blade still between his teeth, he crouches, hooking both my shoes from my feet, and then grabbing my pants and sliding them down my legs. I help him rid me of them, lifting each foot in rotation.

Then he takes the blade from his mouth, and I cling to the vision still, missing it already, but he slices the edges of my panties, tossing those to the side, and baring me to his eyes.

“Goddamn.” He groans. He strokes the knife over where my panties were a moment ago; it feels colder against my hot skin, so I jerk away. “Stay still,mon soleil. Don’t want to hurt yourself.”

The knife travels over my mound, in the slim space between my pussy and thighs, and then down my leg, stopping by my knee. He leans forward and his tongue flicks against my pussy, eliciting a small gasp from me.

A silent plea that he does more, but instead, I only gain the simple lick before he’s straightening, bringing the knife back up my side, over my stomach, and right between my breasts when he grins.

“So pretty, Rozelyn, and all mine for the taking. Are you going to pretend to fight me or just be the good little slut we both know you enjoy being?”

I’m breathless from that question alone, and the chains rattle with my quick movements. Flynn’s only ever been the one to speak to me like that because I’d hurt anyone else.

I shake my head, earning a smalltsk. “Which one are you saying no to?”

“Fighting.” Because there’s no fighting this after we’ve both agreed. “I want you to fuck me hard and fast, Flynn. Pretend it’s that night again and I’m your captive. Show me what you craved doing when you came down here.”

The blade drops from his hand and I nearly beg him to use it again. Flynn and his knives go together, and when they’re not enticing danger within the act, I realize how much I’ve come to associate his touch with them.

But then he backs away and his hands go to the button on his faded jeans and any thought of complaining disappears. Captivated, I watch as he undoes his jeans and peels his shirt over his head, revealing a body etched in tattoos, and then slides his jeans down his legs. His cock bounces free, half-erect already and he grasps himself.

And strokes himself. His gaze on me, and mine on his. I jerk against the chains, feeling left out as his hand strokes over his length, his head, the piercing and back down until he’s completely erect and ready.

“Fuck.”

“I could come like this alone,” he tells me, his lips parting with every pass of his hand. “Seeing you bound up like that…you’re my personal show.”

“Don’t you dare.” I aim for threatening, but I think it comes out more breathless. “Besides, this isn’t what you dreamed of doing when you came down that night.”

His head drops to his side at the same speed his hand falls away from his cock. “No, you’re right.” He strides toward me. “This is.”

In the next instant, my body is in his grip again, my ass cupped in his large, coarse hands, which inch closer to my core. His fingers brush my centre, finding me wet.

“Drenched. Now I have to wonder what got you so wet—the chains or watching me stroke myself?”

“Both.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat and shifts his hand to his cock, rubbing himself over me, lubricating himself. And then his head is inside me, and inch-by-inch, he’s stretching me, barely taking time to prepare me.

My head falls back, my arms limp and only held by the chains. I feel so full, so wonderfully full in an instant. So out of control too. His to use. Not to submit to, but toenjoy.

“This is what I imagined,” he pushes out between thrusts. “Filling your cunt, your mind, and then I’d leave when I was satisfied and you’d feel what I had—a lack of control.”

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