Page 10 of The Captive

But that word didn’t seem to fit how I felt when he sank down on the bed beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. His gaze dropped to the book, and he pulled it toward him, flipping through the pages with one hand while the other rested casually on his thigh.

That casual touch drew my attention downward, to where his cock pressed thick and hard against the fabric of his trousers. My cunny clenched, still throbbing from my interrupted pleasure.

“I like that you touch yourself for me,” he said, his accented French warm with approval. His lips quirked as he studied an illustration. “You were preparing yourself, da?”

“It was…to help me sleep,” I managed, my voice barely a whisper. “I do it for myself.”

To my surprise, his grin widened, something like genuine delight crossing his features. “Even better.”

He flipped the book around, showing me page seventy-nine. The Invasion of Brussels. The woman reclined with her legs spread, the man’s head buried between her thighs, his hands gripping her hips.

“You have an active imagination, krasivaya.” His voice had gone rougher, darker.

He dropped the book and planted his palm on the bed beside my hip, leaning over me. The heat of him, the sheer size of him this close, made my breath catch. His dark eyes held mine, commanding, allowing no argument.

“Show me.”

I should have refused. I should have been horrified, should have reminded him I was a duchess, should have maintained some shred of dignity.

Instead, mesmerized by that wolf-like stare, I let my hand drift back down between my thighs.

His gaze followed the movement, and he hummed deep in his chest—a sound of pure masculine appreciation that sent liquid heat flooding through me.

Emboldened, I let my legs fall wider apart. My fingers found my clitoris again, circling it the way I’d been doing before he interrupted. With my other hand, I squeezed my breast through the chemise, kneading the soft flesh.

“Good, krasivaya.” His voice was barely more than a growl. His hand dropped to the bulge in his trousers, palming himself through the fabric. “You are so wet already. Show me how you like to be touched.”

I shut my eyes, letting myself sink into the sensation. My fingers moved faster, my hips beginning to rock against my hand. I pinched my nipple through the thin fabric, just hard enough to make myself gasp.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Just like that. You are beautiful when you⁠—”

Suddenly, his hands closed around my ankles.

My eyes flew open as he yanked me flat on my back, pulling me down the bed until my arse was at the edge of the mattress. Before I could process what was happening, he’d dropped to his knees on the rugs and buried his face between my thighs.

“Oh!” The sound tore from my throat, somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

No man had ever been so eager⁠—

His beard scraped against my inner thighs, rough and foreign and absolutely wicked. Then his tongue—God in Heaven, his tongue!—dragged flat and slow through my folds, from entrance to clitoris, tasting me like I was the feast spread on his table earlier.

“Monsieur!” I couldn’t help the cry that escaped me.

He chuckled against my cunny, the vibration making me jerk. “Nyet, little rabbit. You will scream my name, just as I promised.”

His tongue circled my clitoris, then flicked over it in quick, devastating strokes. My back arched off the bed, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the furs. The sensation was overwhelming—the scratch of his beard, the wet heat of his mouth, the absolute confidence with which he devoured me.

This was nothing like my own fingers. Nothing like the fumbling attentions of past lovers who’d approached the act with distaste or obligation.

Dmitri Volkov ate my cunny like a starving man at a banquet.

His hands gripped my thighs, holding me open for him, spreading me wider when I tried instinctively to close my legs. One hand slid up to press my hips flat to the mattress, pinning me in place while his mouth worked its wicked magic.

Then I felt his fingers—thick, callused—circling my entrance. One slid inside me, and I gasped at the intrusion. My inner muscles clenched around it, desperate for more.

“So tight,” he murmured against my flesh, his breath hot. “And so very wet for me.”

He added a second finger, and I whimpered. He curved them inside me, pressing upward, searching for⁠—