“Can I touch you?” she asks up into my ear.
“Rather an odd thing for an abductress to ask her victim, is it not? Permission?”
The smile is back in her voice as she answers. “Maybe. I want it anyway.”
Her free hand strokes along my thigh in a touch that feels casually proprietary, and it is, of course it is. Not only have my heart and soul always been hers, but my body as well—my body that can only feel and respond to the woman who’s doomed to destroy it.
Fate is cruel like that.
“Yes,” I say, feeling acute thirst and hunger and greed for the hand that’s currently trailing through the dark hair on my hard thigh. “Yes. Touch me.”
The hand moves under the kilt for real now, her fingertips brushing against my balls and then up the sensitive seam there to my root.
“Already close,” she murmurs in my ear. “How extraordinary.”
Well. I suppose it’s less extraordinary when you think about the last ten hours I’ve spent in acute arousal, but I’m beyond the power of speech now and can’t answer her anyway.
She circles my girth with her hand and slowly drags her grip up to the crown and back down again. Pre-cum had already begun spilling from me earlier, but now it’s back in renewed force, slicking her fingers against my throbbing erection.
“Christ, you’re big,” she observes, giving my penis a hard squeeze. “I forgot.”
She says it in the kind of way you’d say it about a stud horse, the way centuries-ago grandmothers would gossip about which young men they wanted to breed babies on their granddaughters
. It shouldn’t fill me with satisfaction, with pride, but it does, it does. I want everything about me to please her, I want, in a strange and impossible to articulate way, to make her proud of me. This is like nothing we’ve ever shared before, but if having a thick erection is enough to keep that happy note in her voice, then I’m helpless not to oblige.
“Can you come for me?” she says. “I want to see that big cock at work. I want to see how much seed it has inside for me.”
My head drops forward as my stomach clenches into tight ripples of muscle and my hips hammer my cock in and out of the unforgiving vise of Nimue’s hand. It takes only a few seconds of breathless, dirty work and then I’m erupting all over—her hand, my kilt, the bed—twenty-three years of pent-up desire ripping out of my body with jagged, merciless force.
I come and I come and I come, barely able to breathe, unable to see, and all the while with my captor’s fingers digging into my hip and her cuff tight around my ankle. I come while she coos her approval, while she gives me one or two final strokes as if to milk all the semen right out of me, and then I gradually, dizzily come back to earth.
“I always say it’s good to start as we mean to go on,” Nimue says, wiping her hand on my kilt and then climbing gracefully off the bed.
It’s everything I can do to hold myself upright after that hurricane of an orgasm. “What do you mean?”
She stands at the side of my bed, and we’re the same height like this, so when she tucks a finger under my chin so our eyes meet, they meet at the same level. There’s no hiding her excitement from me…and there’s certainly no hiding whatever is on my face from her.
“Merlin, how did you think I was going to break you down enough to take what I needed? How did you think I would manufacture your surrender? Conversation? Games of chess?”
Well, once you trapped me in a cave under a pretense, made it so I loved you beyond all reason, and then you betrayed me and left me with nothing, not even breath.
“I don’t know, Nimue.”
Her other hand slides down the ridged expanse of my chest and stomach until she cups my spent member in her hand.
She gives it a callous squeeze.
“We begin today.”
4
Why am I submitting to this?
Just a few minutes ago, I allowed Nimue to cuff my wrists, attach a chain to the cuffs, and then lead me down a dark hallway to an even darker room. It has no windows, and it makes me think, given the topography outside my bedroom, that this part of the house actually burrows up against the hill behind us. Maybe even into the hill itself. Like a cave.
I should feel bitter about that. I should feel bitter about all of it actually—being ripped away from my life and brought back to the one place on this planet where I suffered more than any other. Bitter about being struck and cuffed and chained, being made to release like a beast on my knees.
Bitter that none of it actually makes me bitter at all.
