Page 57 of The Captive
He groaned again, hips shifting restlessly, and for a moment I worried he might wake. But the whiskey had done its work well—that, combined with obvious exhaustion, kept him under.
I took him deeper, relaxing my throat to take him all the way to the base, my nose buried in the dark hair at his groin. I craved this—his fleeting submission, the fullness of him in my mouth, the momentary inability to breathe as he filled my throat completely.
When his thighs began to tremble, I knew he was close. His balls had drawn up tight, his cock hardening further, the veins standing out under my exploring tongue.
"Come for me," I breathed against his heated skin, stroking the base in rhythm with my mouth. "Let go, Alexander. Fill my mouth with your cum."
As if my command reached through the veil of sleep, his body tensed, back arching slightly as his release hit. The first hot jet hit the back of my throat, salty and bitter and perfect. I didn't pull away, swallowing around him as he pulsed in my mouth, taking everything he gave, working him through each spasm until he was completely spent.
Only when the last tremor had passed did I release him, pressing a final kiss to his softening length before carefully moving away.
He shifted in his sleep, brow furrowing briefly before his features relaxed once more into peaceful slumber. The whiskey had done its work well—that, combined with obvious exhaustion, had kept him under despite what I'd done.
I should leave now, return to my room before I pushed my luck too far. Yet, I couldn't tear my eyes away from him—from the slight flush on his chest, the parted lips, the utterly defenceless state I'd never see him in while awake.
The ache between my thighs had intensified to an unbearable degree, my clit throbbing with the need for attention. Withoutconscious thought, I found my hand slipping between my legs, fingers finding slick heat as I watched him sleep.
"I shouldn't want you," I whispered, circling my clit with practiced fingers, gasping at how sensitive I already was. "You're everything I'm supposed to hate. One I should aim to destroy..."
My free hand came up to cover my mouth, muffling the soft sounds of pleasure I couldn't quite contain. I was already so close—watching him come undone had brought me to the edge without a single touch.
"But I can't stop," I confessed to his unhearing form, fingers moving faster as tension coiled tight in my belly. "Can't stop wanting you. Needing you. Imagining your cock inside me, stretching me, filling me until I scream."
I slipped two fingers inside myself, feeling my inner walls clench around them, imagining it was Alexander's cock, Alexander's fingers, anything of his inside me. It wasn't enough—nothing would ever be enough again except him.
The orgasm hit with shocking intensity, washing through me in waves that left me trembling and gasping. I bit down hard on my palm to smother my cry, tasting blood as pleasure consumed me, eyes never leaving Alexander's sleeping face.
When the last aftershock had faded, I rose on shaky legs, adjusting my robe with hands that weren't quite steady. My thighs were slick with my own arousal, my body still humming with residual pleasure even as shame and triumph battled in my chest.
At the door, I paused for one final look. Alexander slept on, utterly unaware of my presence, of what had transpired. Tomorrow, he would wake thinking he'd had an erotic dream, never knowing the reality of tonight.
It was better that way. I wasn't ready to face what it meant—this obsession, this need, this dangerous wanting that threatened everything I was and had.
I slipped back to my room, closing the door without a sound before collapsing onto my bed. My body hummed with lingering pleasure, my pussy still pulsing with aftershocks, but my mind was a battlefield of conflicting emotions.
This wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed to care. Alexander Moore was meant to be a means to an end—truce, protection, a temporary ally against Beatrice.
Not this. Never this overwhelming want that took me under.
I stared at the ceiling, tracing patterns in the shadows as dawn crept closer. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new complications. Beatrice was still out there. My future was uncertain—I had a life to return to, people who needed my direction. Alexander had let me communicate with them, to let them know I had things to see to and I’d be back soon—especially Barrett who was way more than a driver, always dependable and would likely be the one to question my absence more than any other.
Now here I was, with the man who’d contributed to my father’s death.
Reality wouldn't disappear just because I wished it would.
Yet as sleep finally claimed me, it wasn't strategy or revenge that filled my thoughts—it was the memory of Alexander's taste on my tongue, the weight of him in my mouth, the way he'd said my name in his sleep.
The memory of words whispered in darkness:I can't stop wanting you.
The most dangerous truth of all.
Seventeen
BEATRICE O'BRIEN
Darkness.The scent of mothballs and wood polish. I curled tighter into myself, knees pressed painfully against my chest as I sat motionless in the forgotten priest hole behind the library's false panel. The best spot to hear all the comings and goings, and get an idea of what was going on.
Eighteen hours. That's how long I'd been hiding in this secret space—a relic from the house's original construction when Catholics fled persecution, a space I'd discovered during childhood visits to Ashford House when my mother was still alive. The irony wasn't lost on me that I was hiding in a place designed centuries ago for those fleeing their own kind of hunters.
