“Look at me, Kaia.”
My eyelids slowly lift, and I see him watching me with a look in his eyes I can’t place. It’s not anger. It’s something softer, something kinder possibly?
“Men want a woman who swallows them whole. All their good, and all their bad. They want to be accepted for who they are, and a woman who will take every inch of a man into her is irresistible. I think you’re that kind of woman.”
I shake my head, not thinking of how he’ll interpret that as disobeying him as I admit the truth I know about myself to the two of us. “No. I’m not.”
“You’re wrong, angel.”
“If I was that kind of woman, no one would ever let me go, much less give me away,” I say softly, my voice barely a whisper. “And if someone did lose that kind of woman, they’d move heaven and hell to find her again. That’s not me.”
I swallow hard as my words hang in the air between us and my tears threaten to take me over. I’m not that kind of woman. I’ve never been that kind of woman. The fact that I’m there kneeling at the feet of this man is proof of that.
Through bleary eyes, I see Ryker reach out his hand toward me, and in the next second when he cradles my cheek in his palm, it all becomes too much. My emotions are too raw, too close to the surface, but I don’t want to cry again. I’m tired of crying. I want to be like that Penelope woman and control a man in ways I’ve never done before in my life.
His thumb traces the outline of my lips, leaving a sensation of need and desire in its wake. I don’t want to think about what happened before or what will happen after this moment. Right now, all I want is to feel something other than sadness.
I suck the tip of his thumb into my mouth and feel the gentle scrape of his fingernail along the roof of my mouth. He tastes masculine in a way my husband and every male I’ve ever been with did.
Above me, I hear a low moan when I take the entire length of his finger in, sucking hard as a sensation of pure need races to my pussy. I don’t care if it’s needy or desperate like Derek used to say whenever I tried to seduce him. I just want to feel good.
Ryker’s eyes glaze over, glistening above the skull mask that makes them the only hint to what he’s feeling. I want to see his face and know if I have any effect on him, but I don’t dare ask. I don’t want this to stop.
He looks down at my T-shirt, and then his hand touches my hip, sending need dancing through me. “I’m not one of those boys you tease to get your own way, Lily. This is your one last chance to go back to your room and pretend this never happened because if I let you come in, the word no doesn’t exist in here.”
Every word drips with a threat of something he thinks I can’t handle, but I don’t care. Whatever he is inside that room, at least I’ll be alive there at the week’s end.
“Okay.”
I don’t know what else to say. Unlike in the movies where women always seem to say something snappy, I can’t think of a single clever thing at this moment. All that fills my brain is a mixture of fear, desire, and curiosity regarding the man in front of me.
Cason doesn’t answer and steps back to open the door and let me in. I walk across the threshold with the sense that something has changed the moment the door shuts behind me. The blue-green walls and matching rug look the same as before when I stood in that room and filled my eyes with the vision of him wearing only a towel, but unlike then, I don’t feel like I have the same ability to leave now. He hasn’t said I can’t, but there’s a sense all around me that he controls what happens in this place, and I will play my part in whatever that is, willing or unwillingly.
“So what do you want, little girl?” he says as he stops behind me.
Staring straight ahead, I fix my gaze on the slightly wrinkled bedspread that shows all he was doing was sitting around before I knocked on his door. “I want you to stop calling me little girl,” I answer softly before turning my head to look back at him.
His eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his strong hands slide around my waist and then drift down to my hips. When he pulls me back against his body, I nearly stumble at the feel of his hard cock pressing against me.
“Feel that? I can’t deny you have an effect on me. But I like things rougher than those boys you’re used to. You should have thought twice about coming in here.”
A shiver races down my spine at the first touch of his lips to the back of my neck. His mouth is soft and teases my skin with things to come, but his words rattle around in my head as his hands tighten their grip on my hips with each second that passes.
My head flops forward when his tongue touches me, the tip of it flicking against my skin. I close my eyes and don’t even try to conceal the moan that escapes from my throat. There’s no use. Whatever this is in this room, whatever we are to one another here, I have to see all of it through to the end.
My life depends on it.
I feel Cason’s hand slide up over my left breast and then clamp around my throat, making my head snap up instantly. He chuckles behind me, moving his mouth away from me to speak.
“You had fair warning, Lily. I told you I wouldn’t be like those boys you’re used to.”
I let my gaze travel from his tattooed, broad shoulders down over his muscular chest and chiseled abs partially covered by the bedsheet. Never before have I seen such a perfect physical specimen of a man.
My mind drifts to what’s hidden beneath that sheet. The vision of those piercings is fixed in my brain, and question after question bounces around my head. Why did he do that to himself? Did it hurt? Was it part of some initiation into his boss’s group? Do all of the men around King also have cock piercings?
I don’t think I’ve ever been so fixated on a man’s cock before in my life. Jesus, most of the men I’ve slept with I haven’t thought about their cock as much as I’ve thought about King’s in the past few days.
Turning away, I shake my head, trying to push out the last of the images of those piercings still in my brain. This must be some reaction to being a hostage. What do they call that? Some kind of syndrome. It has something to do with Vikings, doesn’t it? Denmark? Is that it? Denmark syndrome?
No, that doesn’t sound right. Copenhagen syndrome? No. That’s not it either.
Stockholm syndrome! That’s it! Stockholm. But doesn’t that usually take a little while before the hostage begins to care for the captor?
I quickly correct myself on that ridiculous idea. I do not care for King. Not in the least. He may be better than Tap or his disgusting boss, but I don’t care for him.
Why I’m borderline obsessed with those piercings I have no idea.
My cheeks heat at that admission, even though it was silent and only I know the truth. I’ve never been the type of woman who spends her time ogling men’s crotches. I went to a male revue show with my friends last year, and even there, where every inch of men seemed to be available for all to see, I didn’t think once about a single man’s cock.
God, now all I can think about is that word! Cock. Christ, maybe I’m going crazy.
Thanks for being part of the Captive Hearts tour!
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