Page 7 of Captive Ruin

“Have you made a decision?” he asks, voice still eerily quiet.

About what?

Oh.

“I’ll… I’ll suck you,” I whisper. It’s the better option than the humiliation of being bent over a table and spanked.

No. There is no better option. They’re both awful.

“That’s happening anyway,” he promises. “But I meant on whether or not you were going to scream.” His thumb and finger find my nipple, rolling it, pulling it, and I hate the way sparks shoot straight down through me. “Do you want an audience before we begin?”

He’s taunting me, I know he is. I’m not going to scream. What’s the goddamn point? I heard him myself, not long ago: ensure we’re not disturbed. That man’s waiting at the other side of the door right now. A room full of witnesses watched Serranto grab my wrist hard enough to bruise, and not one of them said a word. No one cares. Out here, Van Wyk’s own man stands guard, and I already know how this ends.

He seems to be waiting for an answer. His fingers are still playing with my breast. My nipple is so tight, every touch is sending tingles through my whole damn body, making it difficult to think.

“No…” I force out, hating that it’s pointless.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and releases me, stepping away.

I slump in relief against the wall, breathing coming too fast, brain short-circuiting.

Good girl? Good-fucking-girl?

But at least he’s let me go.

He collects the jacket from the table. I can’t exactly walk back in there wearing a dress that’s only useful from the waist down and a bra that has been rendered nothing more than an accessory. I’m half relieved the rest of it was only an empty threat, but I’m still going to look like a used hooker as I walk out of here.

That fucker.

But he doesn’t give me the jacket to wear. He folds it in two, then in half again, laying it on the ground between us.

“On your knees.”

I stare at him in disbelief. Then down at the jacket, a cushion for me to kneel on.

That’s almost fucking thoughtful, and I hate him a little more for it.

He’s stripping off his own jacket, laying it carefully over the table—his, apparently, doesn’t touch the ground. He watches me expectantly, but I can’t bring myself to move. Is this really happening?

“Now,” he says, hand flying out, catching my throat again. He moves so goddamn fast, like a panther pouncing.

His grip pulls me down, and I have no option but to sink to the ground. My legs are trembling, my knees hit the jacket. His other hand goes to his belt, right before my eyes. I can’t look away.

It takes him only seconds to unfasten his pants, shoving them and his boxers down to mid-thigh. His cock is hard, thick, and impossibly long, straining up toward my face, the end glistening in the dim light.

“Open,” he prompts, like I’ve forgotten what to do. The head of his cock presses against my lips. “And you don’t want to know what will happen if I feel your teeth.”

In truth, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Perhaps it should’ve, I realize, as my lips part and his cock slides in over my tongue. Yet I don’t know if it’s the speed of events, or that I’m simply too damn terrified, but I’ve given no thought to fighting him.

He drives into my mouth. I try to pull away, whimpering my protest. His hand clenches on my braid, holding my head for him.

“Yes,” he hisses. “That is how you say sorry.”

Utter. Bastard.

Tears prickle at my eyes. The taste of him spreads across my tongue. He’s so damn thick that my jaw is already aching. I close a hand around his shaft to stop him going too deep.

“No touching,” he says quickly, jerking my braid to emphasize his command. “Mouth and throat only.”