“From Elena.”
“She helped you?”
“Not directly.”
His hand clasps around my throat, not hard enough to restrict my breathing but enough to make me question if maybe Ishouldfear him. I think about his rules and how getting caught trying to escape means a ticket to the dungeon. But he wouldn’t. Right?
His face is an inch from mine. I can feel the heat coming from his body. And while I’d rather be out of the castle, making progress with my escape, part of me enjoys this closeness—this attention he’s finally giving me after the icy routine this morning.
My left arm is free, and instead of attacking or trying to break away, it rests on his arm as if it has a mind of its own. He looks down at it—at my oddly familiar touch. Then leans in even closer. I wonder if he’s going to kiss me instead of going through this charade of trying to punish me.
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” He asks in an accusatory tone, then touches the side of my face with his other hand, tracing his thumb on my lower lip.
“I don’t know.” My voice surprises me with how steady it is. “I think you’re all talk and you’d never do anything to hurt me. You’d never put me in the dungeon, would you?”
He laughs without humor. “You wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
I glare at him, but I know he has a point. Even having someone else tortured near me would make me panic.
“So, how should I punish you? Extract information from you? Hmm?” He asks these questions more to himself than me.
He puts his hand beneath my hair at the back of my head, so that I’m forced to look him in the eyes. This closeness. This being manhandled is something I’ve never experienced before. It feels like I’m in a trance as my breath quickens. I squeeze my thighs together and curse my body for reacting to him in this way; I’m desperate for his touch when I should be devastated at getting caught.
He takes his other hand and reaches up the back of my shirt, unhooking my bra with one fluid motion. My knees feel weak, and my nipples pebble.
“Are you going to be a good girl and tell me how you got out?”
I shake my head, wanting to keep that advantage to myself in case I want to give this another shot. And a part of myself doesn’t want this to end.
His hand finds my breast as he presses himself closer to me. I can feel his length through his pants, and it takes effort to restrain myself from grinding against him, from touching him.
“You won’t tell me,” he coos, pinching my nipple just enough to make me jolt. “I bet you’re so wet for me right now.” I can feel the blood rushing to my face. “Are you?”
I shake my head, no. Even though we both know that’s a lie. I don’t want to give him the verbal satisfaction.
He smirks as he pulls my shirt up over my head and then pulls my unclasped bra onto the floor. This time, it seems like he’s the one in a trance. His green eyes are dilated as they fixate onmy chest. He drops to his knees and puts one of my breasts in his mouth. I bite my lip hard to avoid moaning to give him the satisfaction. He sucks so hard that it almost buckles my knees then pulls away with a pop.
“If you tell me how you escaped, I’ll reward you like the good girl I know you are. If not… I’m going to have to punish you.”
Punish.
Why is that my gut reaction for the answer?
And what is this? Are we playing, or is this a legitimate attempt to get this information out of me?
Impulsively, I shake my head, trying to turn off my racing and confusing thoughts.
A chuckle escapes his lips. “You’re going to make this fun for me?”
He pulls my leggings down so they fall to my ankles. His hand cups my pussy; I’m sure my arousal is coating him.
A cocky smile forms on his lips. “Liar. You are dripping for me.”
He unzips the boots I’m wearing, helping me walk out of them as I stand there, feeling vulnerable: naked, in front of him. This is all moving so fast. We haven’t kissed. Hell, aside from yesterday, he’s barely shown me any affection. But this is what I crave. He’s smart; maybe he’s purposefully curated this reaction out ofme—to become desperate for his touch and his attention. He’s probably read an entire book about Stockholm syndrome.
But then I look at his face, and I can tell from his expression that he is in little control of himself.
“Bend over my desk.”
