Page 8 of Captive Ruin

I’m bracing my palms against his thighs before I even realize I’ve obeyed. Then his words sink in. Mouth and throat? Is that even possible? He’s bigger than anyone I’ve ever been with, and not by a small margin.

He pulls his shirt up and out of the way with his free hand, and his abdominals are ridges and bumps in the light. Even forced to my knees before him, I can’t deny his body is incredible, and the muscles of his thighs are cords beneath my hands. I’m no longer convinced he maintains that body just for narcissistic indulgence. Not when he has that knife.

My mouth is being fucked by a man who redefines predator.

He pushes in slow, the girth of his cock stretching my lips. I don’t have any control, not with my hands on his thighs, and that feeds the whole submission of this audacious act. I’m hyper-aware of everything; the heady scent of his arousal, the faint breeze of the night on my bare, exposed breasts. The way his grip pulls on my braid, bringing a tingle to my scalp. The taste of his sweet-salty precum.

And the growing ache between my legs, my pussy throbbing in time to my pulse.

Why is this turning me on? That’s just wrong.

Van Wyk draws back before he’s gone too deep, then pushes in again, using my mouth as he pleases. He hasn’t made a sound yet, his breathing steady and even, like he’s controlling everything—himself as much as me.

I’m on my knees, my dress and bra ruined, having my mouth fucked by a man whose first name I can’t remember.

Lukas. That’s what it is.

I don’t want this. I don’t deserve this. I said I’m sorry; isn’t that enough?

He draws back, every move still deliberate and excruciatingly slow, like he’s drawing out his pleasure and my humiliation. He’s punishing me, because I called a man I don’t know an asshole, a bastard, and… impotent.

Evidently so very, very wrong.

I meant it for Serranto, that fucker. Lukas caught the brunt of it, because it pissed me off that he stood there and did nothing.

Regardless, he’s doing something now.

Part of me wonders if he just wanted an excuse.

“Sweet fucking mouth,” he mutters, holding my head to him by means of my braid, his hips pushing forward until his cock is so deep in my throat that I can’t breathe. I’m fighting not to gag. The seconds tick by, then he pulls back, and I gratefully suck in a lungful of air, looking up at him with tears in my eyes.

“Fuck,” he says on a breath. “Yes, look at me like that when I use you. I love the vulnerability and heat in your eyes.”

My vulnerability? Fuck. But he’s controlled me every step of the way, and I’ve responded. Heat? He’s fucking delusional. I’m not liking this.

But it’s the other bit that hits hardest. When I use you… like this won’t be the last time.

It most certainly will. I’m not gatecrashing any more parties, ever. And I’m sure as hell running a mile if I see this man again. Or going to the cops.

Yeah, like that’ll do any good. His word against mine, with Serranto backing him.

He starts fucking my mouth harder than before, his arousal growing, his need to come driving his pace.

His cock is slick with my saliva, each thrust pushing deep, the obscene wet choking noise loud with every drive, my throat aching. I’m ready for him to come, if only so this will end.

On sore knees despite the jacket, my breasts exposed, my nipples tight and aching for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold, I don’t have a choice. I’d be better off ending this quickly.

I start sucking him for real, using my tongue and lips as he moves, becoming an active participant, not merely a hole for him to fuck.

His grip tightens on my braid. “That’s my good girl.”

His? Never.

A stranger, taking me on a terrace, exposed to every building around us. I said no and he ignored me. Did he expect me to want this? Good girls don’t drop to their knees before men they’ve only just met.

Except I did. So what do I know?

It’ll be over in a minute, when he finally comes. Then I can say sorry again, pull together the shreds of my clothes and dignity, and escape him. Somehow figure out how to get home.