Page 12 of Captive Ruin

His tone is deliberately sarcastic, but now that I’ve spoken, I want the answer. I don’t trust him one little bit. Why would I?

“Have you been tested?”

His hand closes on my braid, pulling back my head, and he leans over me until his mouth is by my ear. It forces his hips harder against me, his cock shifting inside me. His voice drops cold. “Are you questioning my word?”

Of course I fucking was. “…No…”

“I haven’t fucked anyone since my wife.”

“You’re married?” I blurt. No ring, but that doesn’t mean anything. Plenty of assholes don’t wear them so they can fuck around. Like that makes any difference whatsoever. This isn’t a goddamn date, as I’ve been telling myself since we came out here. I’m never seeing him again. He can finish with me, and this will be over.

“I was,” Van Wyk replies, tone masked to the point of indifference. “She died.”

He has me bent over a table, my dress bunched around my waist, his hand fisted in my hair and his cock filling me, and somehow I’m the one left feeling like shit.

Part of me wants to apologize. To hell with that part.

“We can catch up later,” he says dryly. “If you’re done making small talk, be quiet.”

I’m so goddamn embarrassed that if the building collapsed right now, I’d welcome it.

But my anger is still there. Good, I need it.

“Cute question though,” he adds.

Before I can retort, he draws out of me and slams back in.

The force of it drives me into the table, and with his hand in my hair, pulling me up, all I can do is brace myself. He doesn’t hold back, fucking me like he spanked me, sharp and fast and forceful, and every stroke rubs over my g-spot. My arousal spikes, even though I don’t want it to, my whole world becoming the sensation of him pushing into me, over and over. My gasps are high and sharp. I can’t help it; it’s more intense, more consuming, more raw than I’ve ever been fucked.

My orgasm arrives out of nowhere, blindsiding me. White light explodes across the back of my eyelids as he spears into me. So damn hard, so fast, like all that time in the gym was solely for this purpose.

Van Wyk grunts as I clench around him, momentarily losing his rhythm. His hand slips between my legs, finding my clit, thrumming it with a fingertip as he starts thrusting again, and my orgasm goes from scorching to white hot.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he says, his voice sounding like it’s a mile away. My pulse is thudding in my ears, and I don’t know if I’m breathing anymore, and I don’t care either. I’m vaguely conscious he’s pulled me up, my breasts exposed, my ass raised, fucking me where anyone can see.

Another orgasm melds with the first, or the second, or whatever the hell it is, and his fingers don’t stop playing with my clit.

God, I hate him so much.

My legs are trembling. I’d be on the floor if he wasn’t holding me up with his hand in my hair and his cock inside me. I’m barely conscious that I’ve gripped the wrist of the hand between my legs. Maybe I’m pulling it against me, silently begging him not to stop touching me.

I let go like I’ve been burned.

His grip on my braid tightens, forcing my back to arch more, and the arm over my hip pulls me against him. The rhythm of his strokes changes; he’s staying deeper within me, thrusting hard. My every nerve ending is awake, from my nipples out in the cold of the night, to the tingle in my scalp where my hair pulls, to my clit sending waves of pleasure through my whole body. Deep in my pussy, his cock swells as he grunts with exertion, then shoots his hot jets of cum.

I don’t know that my orgasm ever truly abated, but that sensation pushes it higher, and I cry out as I clench down on him. His arm hooks me against him, my ass pressing into his hips, my back against his silky shirt, the buttons rubbing my spine. We’re touching almost everywhere we can be as we both ride out the pleasure of our releases.

For a moment, I forget where I am, or what’s happened. It’s like we’re in bed, lovers together, basking in the afterglow of some of the best sex I’ve ever had.

For a moment.

And then reality comes crashing back. We’re on a terrace. I hate this man. My dress is ruined, my bra useless, there’s a room with a hundred people behind a door, and my pussy is full of his cum.

Is this his final, sadistic punishment?

How could I have let this happen?

But even through my post-orgasmic fog, the answer to that is crystal clear: I never had a choice.