Page 11 of The Captive

“Oh God!” My hips bucked violently as he found the rough spot behind my clitoris.

The spot I’d only recently discovered myself, the one no man had ever bothered to find. He’d been watching. He’d been paying attention to how I’d touched myself, learning what I liked.

He began to pump his fingers slowly, crooking them on each inward stroke to hit that devastating spot while his tongue returned to my clitoris. The dual sensation was too much—pleasure building from two directions at once, tightening low in my belly like a coiled spring.

“No, I—oh God, I can’t⁠—”

“Yes, you can.” His words were muffled against my cunny. “Come for me, Augusta. Come on my fingers and tongue like my krasivaya little duchess.”

The same praise he’d used when I’d submitted, when I’d spread my legs for him.

His fingers thrust harder, faster, hitting that spot with every stroke. His mouth closed around my clitoris and he sucked, his tongue flicking over the sensitive nub.

The spring snapped.

I came with a scream that surely carried across the entire camp, exactly as he’d vowed. “Dmitri!”

My cunny clamped down on his fingers, pulsing in waves of pleasure so intense I thought I might shatter. He didn’t stop—he worked me through it, his fingers gentling but never ceasing their movement, his tongue lapping at me as my body convulsed.

It went on and on, wave after wave of the most exquisite pleasure I’d ever experienced. Better than any orgasm I’d given myself, better than any man had ever given me.

When the last tremor finally faded, I lay boneless and panting on his bed, my limbs heavy, my mind floating somewhere above my body.

I felt him straighten, heard the rustle of fabric. Through half-lidded eyes, I watched him crawl up the bed toward me, his beard glistening with my spend. That wolfish grin was back, full of masculine pride.

“You see, little rabbit? I promised you would scream my name.”

I expected him to push me down, to pin me beneath him and take his pleasure the way he’d threatened all day. My body was still thrumming, still ready despite the powerful release, and part of me—the part that had stopped being sensible somewhere around Moscow—wanted it.

Instead, he gathered me in his arms, pulling me against his bare chest. His skin was warm, the hair on his chest soft against my cheek. One arm came around me, holding me close, while his other hand stroked my hair with surprising gentleness.

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Sleep, Augusta.”

“But you did not—” I started to protest, confused. His cock was still hard against my hip.

“Sleep,” he repeated, his voice firm but not unkind. “We have many days ahead of us, krasivaya. I am not finished with you yet.”

Exhaustion crashed over me then—the terror of the morning, the long ride, the mind-shattering orgasm all catching up at once. My eyes grew heavy despite my confusion.

As I drifted off in the arms of the Wolf of the steppe, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, one last coherent thought floated through my mind:

I had wanted an adventure.

It appeared I had found one.

The next morning, I woke slowly, warmth cocooning me, the scent of sandalwood and male sweat filling my senses. For a blissful moment, I didn’t remember where I was—only that I was comfortable, safe, held against a broad chest that rose and fell with steady breaths. I’d slept through the night for the first time in ages…

Then memory returned in a rush.

I was in Dmitri Volkov’s tent. In his bed. In his arms.

The realization should have sent me scrambling away in horror. Instead, I found myself studying the man who held me, curiosity overcoming caution.

In sleep, the Wolf of the steppe was softened. The hard lines of his face relaxed, the perpetual smirk gone from his lips. His beard looked darker against the paleness of the pillow, the scar on his jaw less threatening. One arm was thrown over his head, the other still draped possessively across my waist.

My fingers twitched with the urge to trace that scar, to explore the planes of his face unguarded. I had never seen him like this—vulnerable, almost peaceful. The contrast with the commanding bandit who had stolen me was startling.

The tent was warm, the layered rugs insulating us from the morning chill. Sunlight filtered through the felt walls, casting golden patterns across the furs. Somewhere outside, a child laughed, and the scent of woodsmoke drifted in—breakfast fires being lit.