Ian Abernathy. I’m going to remember him in my mouth and on my skin for the rest of my life, even if said life is really fucking short because I failed in my task here.
I stifle an involuntary cry of dissent as he moves. Without his body on mine I feel the bite of the night air and hot shame of having enjoyed every part of that.
Ian disappears into what I assume in the en suite. A tap runs. I hope he isn’t going to… my mind refuses to fill in the gap for what he could do now. His expression is set neutral when he returns. No sign of the emotion I saw earlier. He sits at my side and it takes me a second to recognise when a soft wet flannel wipes over my chest that he is washing me. And I let him.
“My dirty lass,” he murmurs as his seed smears over my nipple.
I think I should object, but I nod helplessly.
When I’m clean and dry and you’d never know he spurted his come all over me, he speaks.
“Cleo.”
“Yes.”
“I didna say you talked too much. I said you talked a lot.”
Oh. What does that mean? I’d assumed it was a criticism, because it always is when my father says I’m talkative.
“You’ve hadyourpunishment. Now you getmine.”
And that’s when fear skitters over my skin again. I don’t know what to expect, but it’s not him stretching out his long frame over me. Our noses brush.
“You have one free hand.”
Waitwhat?
I’d forgotten. My non-dominant left hand has been lying on the bed since Ian pulled from my grasp, as though it was as tied up as my other limbs.
So I do the logical thing with my means of escape. I gouge my nails into his eye—nope.
Nope.
I don’t. That would be far too sensible and I left sensible back in London along with modest, restrained, and long-term survival prospects.
I cup the back of his neck and drag his mouth to kiss me. He groans as our lips smash together.
Then he’s devouring my mouth, and I his.
This feels somehow more forbidden than what he just did to me. Riskier too. This kiss is desperate, his tongue thrusting, claiming me, and I try to do the same. I have no idea how long we kiss like this. Dirty and wet and yet also surprisingly innocent given I tried to kill him then told him to force his cock into my throat. It might be aeons of our lips sliding over each other’s before I get impatient. He is holding himself so his weight isn’t crushing me and this seems grossly unfair.
I want to feel every part of him. That brutal strength, yes, and the sheer size of this gorgeous man. Despite being tied down, I’m writhing and trying to grind myself on him.
“My needy lass…” he purrs as he draws away and holds my hip in his big hand, pressing me to the bed. “I am going to do the other thing I’ve dreamed of since we met: lick your pussy until you scream and come on my mouth. I’m not going to stop then. I’m going to continue until you’ve pulsed under my tongue at least twice. I’m going to slip my fingers into that sweet tight passage of yours and stroke you into mindless pleasure.”
A whimper of desire is fighting to leave my chest. My hips move of their own accord, trying to swivel despite his grip, in a vain attempt to get friction on my clit. Because if I thought Ian’s words as he thrust his cock into my throat were arousing, that has nothing on what he’s promising now.
“And you, Cleo, have a choice. You can try to fight me off, though you won’t succeed with only one hand. You can take the pleasure I’m giving like a good lass.”
That whimper I held back breaks out.
“Or you can undo your bindings and escape. I won’t stop you. But the question is, can you escape before I make you come? Because once you come for me, you’re my captive.”
I’m blinking and shocked and confused, but he doesn’t hesitate. Half a second after that pronouncement, his hand smooths over my knickers and leggings. He murmurs an apology, the cotton tightens, and there’s a rip.
That sound galvanises me into action.
I cannot be a captive. I grasp for the knot holding my right wrist.
