Page 85 of Captive Audience

Halfway through, Rook moved the empty bowl aside and tugged my feet into his lap.

I tensed. “What are you doing?”

“Relax, Wildfire,” he said, already kneading my arch with firm thumbs. “It’s just a foot massage. Don’t overthink it.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re absolutely overthinking it.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe I am. It’s a little hard not to.”

What with my fake husband slash captor short-circuiting my brain and forcing a whimper from my lips with his talented hands.

“Just answer me this. Does it feel good?” he asked.

I tried not to enjoy it. I really did, but his hands were magic. Strong and slow and devastatingly effective.

“Yes.”

He smiled as though he knew he’d won. “Then lie back and enjoy it like a good wife.”

His choice of words wasn’t lost on me. The night we’d met, Rook had ordered me to do the same thing—minus the wife part—then brought me to an epic, toe-curling orgasm.

I melted against the cushions, biting my lip. My body tingled, and my pebbled nipples rubbed against the soft fabric of my bra.

Suddenly, I wanted Rook to touch me everywhere. My calves, my thighs, at the pulsing place between my legs. He licked his lips, leaving them glistening, and all I could think about was his hot mouth lapping at me, sucking on my clit while I begged him to let me come.

The TV became background noise. My thoughts tangled, and heat coiled low in my belly as his thumbs pressed circles into the ball of my foot.

When Rook’s erection brushed against my foot, it only made my panties wetter. Any slicker and I’d slide off the sofa and leave a wet patch on the damn thing.

The end of the movie couldn’t arrive quickly enough. As soon as it did, I jerked upright, wiping my sweaty palms on my leggings. If I stayed a minute longer, I’d forget everything he’d done to get me here. And I wasn’t ready to forgive him. Not yet.

“I’m going to bed.” I stepped over Rook’s outstretched legs.

He caught my wrist and tugged me down, straight into his lap, straddling him.

My hands flew to his shoulders to break my fall. Rook’s skin felt warm and hard with muscle. I resisted the urge to let my palms travel farther, over the ink on his chest and down to those delicious abs.

He held me in place, one big hand at the back of my neck, the other clamped onto my hip.

I was trapped. Only this time, I wasn’t mad or panicky about it.

If that wasn’t a giant red flag waving in my face, I didn’t know what was.

I needed to extract myself from this situation. Fast.

“Rook,” I grumbled.

“Easy, Wildfire,” he said, voice low and soothing, while his thumb stroked my nape.

I licked my dry lips. “This is inappropriate.”

“No, pet. What I actually want to do to you is inappropriate. This”—the hand at my hip tightened—“isn’t.”

All moisture left my mouth and migrated to my hussy of a vagina. I had the unfortunate urge to rock my pelvis against Rook’s, the way I’d done so many times on the night we’d met. His body was familiar. I knew the way he moved, the way he felt thrusting between my thighs. So it wasn’t hard to imagine it now.

When was my body going to catch up with the news that this man was my enemy?