Page 14 of Captive Ruin

Bastard.

Yeah, that’s what I would’ve said.

Except I’m never going to insult that man again.

Or see him. I’ll run the other way first, as fast as I can.

His cum chooses that moment to trickle down my inner thigh, and I grimace. My panties are ruined, torn and damp, but they can serve one more purpose. I use them to wipe myself clean, then deposit them in a convenient trash can.

Tears come, then. Humiliation, shame, shock—I don’t even know which feeling wins.

I sob as I pull on the tuxedo jacket he’s left me. It’s too large, but I wear it anyway; it’s either that or walk back through the gala with my breasts on display.

There’s no point buttoning it, the gap will be down to my navel. I overlap the two sides, pinning my dress beneath it as best I can. I’m certain I look ridiculous, but there’s no other fucking choice.

I wipe the tears from my eyes, pick up my clutch, brace myself for more seconds than I care to admit, then lift my chin, square my shoulders, and reach for the door handle.

The man inside is waiting, hands clasped behind his back.

Just let him fucking make a comment. Just one. I’ll claw his eyes out.

“Are you ready to leave?” His accent is distinctly British.

“Yes.”

His eyes stay carefully on my face. “Do you require any assistance?”

“No.” I pause. “Thank you.”

So maybe I’ve learned some basic politeness.

He nods, then gestures down the hallway that leads back into the gallery. “After you.”

There are walks of shame, and then there’s what I did. Head high, shoulders back, eyes straight ahead. Wearing a jacket that clearly isn’t mine, accompanied by a man without one. My arm tucked firmly around my stomach, pinning the two sides closed, my other hand holding my dress.

I can’t imagine how I look. Face flushed, hair in disarray, makeup smudged. My ass tingling from Van Wyk’s spanking, my pussy and throat aching from his rough use of me.

The room goes quiet, silence rippling out as I walk by, or maybe I’m imagining it, because I can’t hear a damn thing save for my pulse drumming in my ears.

I make no effort to look for Van Wyk. I know I won’t keep my composure if I see him. Fortunately, there’s no sign of Serranto either.

It’s only eighty feet across the room, but it feels eighty times as much, each step a torture. Finally, finally, we reach the exit, Haynes behind me. He calls the elevator, looking completely unruffled, like he takes out Van Wyk’s trash on a regular basis.

Except that’s not possible. If Van Wyk is to be believed, he hasn’t fucked anyone since his late wife.

And I do believe him. I don’t know why, but I do.

Which leaves only one question unanswered: Why me?

Haynes presses the button for the lower lobby, sees me into a sleek black Maybach, and drives me home.

Four

Lukas

“We have a fucking problem.”

Bastien Fournier’s dulcet tones come from the speakers of the handset on my desk, filling the large office I use on the rare occasion that I work out of Manhattan.