Claiming My Sweet Captive

“N-no one.” Lauren’s voice was a high squeak. “I’m sorry, Master Andrés. I’m so sorry.”

“Do not speak to me.” I bit out each word. The girl had betrayed me. She’d let them look at Samantha. She’d let the boy touch what was mine. “You’re lucky I don’t snap your neck, too.”

Lauren heaved out a despairing sob and wisely fled the room.

“Master Andrés,” Samantha said with distaste. “I don’t like that she calls you Master.”

The sound of my name on her tongue called my full attention to her. My fury didn’t dissipate, but the need to shield her from their eyes overcame my need to destroy every man in the room. My muscles were still tense with the imperative to punish, but I handled her carefully as I picked her up and carried her out of the brothel. The smell of sex followed us, and I knew Samantha was experiencing artificial lust as a result of the Bliss. She’d have no control over her body right now. She’d obey any order, do any depraved act that was asked of her.

“You’re not hers,” she murmured as I stepped into the elevator. She snuggled into my chest, rubbing against me like a needy kitten. “You’re mine. My Master.” She giggled. “Isn’t that funny? I always wanted a Master. And you’re mine.”

My stomach twisted.

Master.

I’d craved to hear that title fall from her lips. Now, it made nausea curl up my throat. Once, I’d desired her mindless devotion, her absolute, unquestioning obedience. The little sex doll in my arms would comply with my every deviant order.

But it wouldn’t be real. She wouldn’t be willing. She wouldn’t be Samantha.

And she’d hate me for using her when she had no control.

I’d hate myself.

We arrived at my penthouse, and I carried her to the bed. I tried to set her down. Her nearness and the scent of her arousal stoked the madness that threatened to overtake my thoughts. My body was conditioned to want her, to respond to her carnal desire. My cock stirred, even as acid coated my tongue.

She locked her arms around my neck before I could pull away. “Touch me, Master,” she breathed. “Please. I need you.”

Master. She was behaving like something out of my darkest wet dream. Anguish churned in my gut, and I pried her arms away from me, pinning her wrists to the pillow so she couldn’t grab at me.

She whimpered her desire and arched her back, seeking stimulation.

“I can’t,” I rasped. “I can’t be with you like this.”

Holding her wrists in place with one hand, I smoothed her hair back from her sweat-dampened cheek with the other in an attempt to soothe her.

She nuzzled her face into my palm with a sigh. “My Master. Mine.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” I said tightly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t here. I didn’t know. When Cristian told me…” My jaw clenched as I recalled my brother’s disgusting words, his laughter as I ran away. “I should have killed him. I should have fucking killed him.”

“You’re upset,” she observed. “Don’t be upset. Make love to me, Master.”

“Don’t call me that,” I growled, the breathy honorific tearing me up inside.

“But you are,” she declared. “I love you, my Master. My Andrés.”

I cupped her cheek in my hand. “Please, don’t say that. Don’t.” Something hot and sharp pricked at the corners of my eyes.

“Don’t be sad.” My sweet Samantha tried to ease my anguish.

I blinked hard, and something wet spilled down my face. It dropped on her cheek, glistening against her porcelain skin.

“Make love to me,” she urged again, arching her back and lifting her breasts in wanton invitation. “I need you.” There was a thread of desperation in the words. I remembered how Cristian had threatened to torture her by dosing her with Bliss and leaving her without release. I wouldn’t let her suffer.

But I couldn’t fuck her, either. I couldn’t.

I pressed a tender kiss against her forehead. “All right, cosita,” I murmured. “I’ll help you. I know you must be aching.”

“I am. My pussy hurts.”