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He chuckled, though the sound could hardly be described as amused. Sylvia didn’t know what she’d started. “Tell me the words, Sylvie. And then it starts.”
She licked her lips nervously. “Stop,” she whispered.
“And?” Lancelot prompted.
“Wait.”
“And?” he said again.
She frowned, then understood. “Nothing else.”
Hugo crossed his arms. “You aren’t undressing.”
She glanced toward the door—the locked door. Lancelot stood between her and any escape, something he watched her acknowledge, analyze.
Lancelot could read her thoughts, and he saw it the second she’d made up her mind. She started to move, but he moved faster. Before she’d taken two steps toward the en suite bathroom, he caught her, propelled her forward until her front was pressed against the bedroom wall.
“Bad girl,” he murmured in her ear.
She tried to push away—from the wall, from him—but he crowded even closer. He was cognizant of her injured hand, even as he grasped a handful of her hair and pulled.
Sylvia gasped, then moaned.
Lancelot had been hard and hurting ever since he’d kissed his new spouses at the end of the ceremony. While part of him longed to draw this out, to make it last, the other part, the ravenous beast, was hungrier. He lifted the skirt of her dress, pressing his finger into her panties.
She jerked as he shoved two fingers inside her. Sylvia was slick with her arousal, and her pussy clenched tightly on his fingers.
“You’re ours,” he said as he thrust his fingers. “Ours to take however we want.”
Sylvia whimpered, and though she was playing the part of the scared captive well, her body betrayed her true feelings, her ass shifting toward him on every thrust, trying to drive his fingers deeper.
“Please,” she whispered, perfectly aware that word wouldn’t stop him. He tightened his grip in her hair, bending her head to one side so he could bite her neck.
“God, please,” she said again, her voice trembling.
“That’s right, femme,” Hugo said, still sitting in the chair, watching them as if they were putting on a play for his amusement. “Beg him. Beg him to fuck you, to take you.”
Lancelot’s fingers stilled. He kept them buried inside her, but they were motionless.
Sylvia cursed, fighting to shove her lower body toward him, to seek her own pleasure. He pressed her more firmly against the wall, making it impossible for her to take what she needed.
She began to struggle in earnest, but her strength was no match for his.
“Say you’re ours. Say it.”
“Will you give me what I want if I do?”
He bit her shoulder. “No. We’re taking what we want.”
Sylvia was breathing rapidly, something that became even louder in the quiet of the room when she pursed her lips closed.
She wasn’t anywhere near finished playing.
Good.
Lancelot released her hair and, for a moment, she must have thought he planned to release her. He didn’t.
Using both hands, he tore her panties, breaking the lace with a sharp snap. If he’d begun this game using his head instead of acting on impulse, he would have taken the time to take her dress off. While his baser inclination was to rip it off her, it was her wedding dress, and he didn’t want to ruin it. Maybe someday, if they survived this nightmare, they’d have a daughter who would want to wear it for her wedding, unconventional dress or not.
