Page 34

I slide my hand down from her jaw, trailing it along the curve of her neck, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my fingertips. She’s afraid, yes, but there’s more than fear making her heart race.

My hand continues its journey downward, skimming over her collarbone, between her breasts, down to the flat plane of her stomach. She shivers under my touch, goosebumps rising on her skin despite the warmth of the room.

Finally, my fingers reach the waistband of her jeans, pausing there for a moment, teasing, savoring the anticipation. Then I press my palm firmly against her over the denim, cupping her, feeling the heat of her even through the thick fabric.

A soft sigh escapes her lips, so quiet I might have imagined it if I hadn’t been watching her face so intently. Her eyes flutter closed for just a moment before she forces them open again, refusing to give me the satisfaction of seeing her completely surrender.

But it’s too late. That tiny sound, that brief moment of weakness—it tells me everything I need to know. She wants this as much as I do, no matter how much she might deny it.

I rub my palm against her in slow, deliberate circles, watching as her breathing becomes shallower, as her thighs tense and then part slightly, unconsciously seeking more pressure. The restraints on her ankles prevent her from opening fully to me, but the gesture is unmistakable.

“Look at you,” I murmur, my free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her flushed face. “Fighting so hard not to show me how badly you want this.”

Her eyes flash with renewed anger, but she can’t hide the way her body responds to my touch, the way her hips shift minutely, seeking more contact. “I hate you,” she whispers, the words catching in her throat.

I smile, slow and predatory. “Maybe,” I concede, increasing the pressure of my hand between her legs until she bites her lip to stifle a moan. “But your body doesn’t lie, Dove.”

I withdraw my hand, and she can’t quite suppress a small sound of protest. The sight of her—flushed, frustrated, fighting her own desires—sends another surge of arousal through me, my cock throbbing painfully against the confines of my jeans.

Standing, I move behind her chair, out of her line of sight. I can feel her tension increase, the uncertainty of not being able to see me making her nervous. Good. I want her on edge, every sense heightened and alert.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice strained as she tries to turn her head to follow my movements.

I don’t answer, focusing instead on the task at hand. The key to her cuffs is cold against my palm as I withdraw it from my pocket. The metal clinks softly as I insert it into the lock, and I feel her stiffen at the sound.

“Be still,” I command, and to my satisfaction, she obeys, her body freezing in place.

The cuffs release with a decisive click, falling away from her wrists to clatter against the concrete floor. Before she can react, I grab her freed hands and pin them in front of her, my grip firm but not painful.

“Don’t move,” I warn, my breath hot against the nape of her neck.

She shivers but doesn’t try to pull away, her compliance sending a thrill of satisfaction through me. Slowly, I bring her hands down to her lap, positioning them palms up on her thighs.

“Keep them there,” I instruct, releasing her wrists to trail my fingers up her arms, feeling the goosebumps that rise in the wake of my touch.

She does as she’s told, her hands remaining where I placed them, though I can see the effort it costs her in the slight tremor that runs through them. The restraints on her ankles still keep her anchored to the chair, but her upper body is now free—free, and yet still under my control.

I move back around to face her, drinking in the sight of her—hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes dark with a mixture of resentment and reluctant desire. Beautiful in her defiance, even more so in her surrender.

“Stand up,” I order, reaching down to release the restraints on her ankles.

She hesitates, confusion evident in her expression. “I thought you said—”

“I said stand up,” I repeat, my tone brooking no argument. “Now.”

Slowly, warily, she complies, rising from the chair on unsteady legs. I step back, giving her space, watching as she stands uncertainly in the middle of the cold concrete room. Without the chair to support her, she seems smaller somehow, more vulnerable.

“Take off your jeans,” I say, my voice even despite the anticipation coiling tight in my gut.

Her eyes widen, a flash of genuine fear crossing her face as she remembers where we are, who might be watching. “Here?” she whispers, glancing around at the bare walls, the surveillance cameras mounted in the corners. “But—”

“Here,” I confirm, cutting off her protest. “Now.”

For a moment, I think she might refuse, might make me force her. But then her hands move to the button of her jeans, fumbling slightly as she undoes it, then the zipper. The sound of it sliding down is unnaturally loud in the quiet room, a promise of what’s to come.

She pushes the denim down her hips, over her thighs, the movement awkward and halting. When the jeans reach her ankles, she steps out of them, kicking them aside with a small, defiant gesture that makes me smile despite myself.

She stands before me in a simple black t-shirt and dark blue panties, her legs bare and goosebumped in the cool air of the chamber. She crosses her arms over her chest, an instinctive attempt at modesty that only draws my attention to the swell of her breasts beneath the thin cotton.

“The shirt too,” I say, my voice rougher now, desire making it difficult to maintain the cool control I need to show Noah, to show all of them, that she’s mine.

This time she doesn’t hesitate. In one fluid motion, she pulls the t-shirt over her head and drops it to the floor, leaving her in just her underwear—simple cotton panties and a matching bra, practical rather than provocative.

But that doesn’t matter. I would devour her in just about anything.

“Beautiful,” I murmur, and I mean it. She’s all soft curves and pale skin, the flush on her cheeks spreading down her neck to her chest. The bruises on her wrists from the restraints are already darkening, a visible reminder of her captivity, of her vulnerability.

Her arms remain crossed, a barrier between us. I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin, to catch the faint scent of her—fear sweat and something sweeter underneath, something uniquely her.

“Arms at your sides,” I instruct, watching her face carefully.

Her jaw tightens, but after a moment of internal struggle, she obeys, letting her arms fall to her sides. The action leaves her exposed, defenseless, and she lifts her chin in defiance, refusing to look away as I take in every inch of her.

I circle her slowly, a predator stalking its prey. Her breathing quickens as I move behind her, out of her sight once more. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands curl into fists, then release, then curl again.

When I complete my circuit, I stop directly in front of her, close enough that our bodies almost touch. Her eyes meet mine, wary but unwavering. The challenge in them, even now, sends a fresh wave of desire through me.

“On your knees,” I say, the words barely more than a whisper.

She blinks, surprise flickering across her face before it settles back into that defiant mask. But she doesn’t move, doesn’t comply, and I can see the battle raging behind her eyes. This is the line she’s not yet willing to cross, the submission she can’t bring herself to offer.

I reach out, my hand curling around the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair at her nape. Not painful, but firm, a reminder of my control.

“I said,” I repeat, my voice dangerously soft, “on your knees, Dove.”

The use of the nickname seems to reach her, breaking through her resistance. Slowly, with a grace that catches me off guard, she sinks to her knees before me, her eyes never leaving mine even as she settles on the cold concrete floor.

The sight of her like this—nearly naked, on her knees, looking up at me with those defiant eyes—nearly undoes me. My cock throbs painfully, demanding release, demanding her.

I stroke her hair gently, a reward for her compliance. “Good girl,” I murmur, watching as her eyelids flutter at the praise despite her obvious determination to remain unmoved. “Now, show me how much you hate me.”

She understands immediately, her gaze dropping to the bulge in my jeans before rising to meet my eyes again. Something shifts in her expression—a decision made, a realization reached.

Her hands move to my belt, her fingers more sure now, less hesitant.

The metal buckle clinks as she undoes it, then moves on to the button of my jeans, the zipper.

Each action brings her closer to what we both want, to the inevitable conclusion of this dance we’ve been performing since that first night.

My jeans open, and she pushes them down just enough to free my erection. I’m already hard, achingly so, the head of my cock flushed and leaking. She stares at it for a moment, then back up at me, a mix of apprehension and something else in her eyes.

“Go on,” I urge, my hand still gentle in her hair despite the tension coiling through me. “Show me what that pretty mouth can do.”

Her lips part, and I have to stifle a groan at the sight. Slowly, so slowly it feels like torture, she leans forward and takes me into her mouth.

The wet heat of her engulfs me, and it’s all I can do not to thrust forward, to take what I want without regard for her comfort. But I hold back, letting her set the pace, watching as her lips stretch around my girth, as her cheeks hollow with the first tentative suck.

“Fuck,” I breathe, the word escaping me as pleasure courses through my veins.