Complicate (Deliver 9)

A flicker of hurt crossed her expression, and she looked away, pretending indifference by straightening her clothes and tucking in her tits.

“You, on the other hand, will not get off without me.”

Her head shot up at that, eyes wide. “What did you say?”

“Nothing touches that pussy but me. Not Mike. Not your men. Not your fingers. Your body belongs to me.”

She made a sound of disbelief that morphed into a sneer of disgust. Then she spun away and stormed to the exit without looking back.

Later, she would think back and relive every thrust, every grunt, every intimate second of eye contact, and she would think about his command.

She would attempt to touch herself because she wanted to hate him. But she wouldn’t go through with it because she wanted him. And that want would bring her back for more.

He might not survive it, but he would be ready for her.

Three days later, Lydia stood over Cole’s nude body, fighting an inner battle between duty and decency.

For as long as she could remember, duty had always won out. She’d lied, cheated, stolen, kidnapped, and sold her soul to the devil in the name of duty.

Her purpose was greater than Cole’s life, her own, and that of anyone who tried to stop her. She was prepared to do anything and everything to finish this.

Or so she thought.

As she took in the rope that secured his powerful frame to the factory floor, her stomach churned with an unexpected sense of wrongness. What she was doing to him was unacceptable. Indecent. Unforgivable.

Was she developing a goddamn conscience after all these years? Or was it worse? Was she developing feelings for her prisoner?

Lima Syndrome, the inverse of Stockholm syndrome. She knew it could happen. She just didn’t think it could happen to her.

It needed to stop.

The moment she met Cole, she knew this wouldn’t be easy. Mike had known long before, which was why he’d fought so hard against this plan.

Cole belonged on a motorcycle with a rifle on his back, flying down a lone highway on some hell-raising mission. He didn’t belong in restraints, stripped of his clothes and his freedom, and forced to endure another rape.

Because that was what this was. No matter how hard his dick grew in her hands. He wasn’t a willing participant. He was a prisoner, and in the last three days, she’d raped him three times, each time finishing herself off while denying him a completion.

The first time, she convinced herself he was right there with her, fucking her as passionately as she fucked him. She thought, when he was seconds from climax, that he was too injured to come. He’d just fought off the raging blows of ten men, his face swollen and covered in blood. But he hadn’t flinched when she’d washed his wounds. It was as if he didn’t even feel the pain.

The second day, she orgasmed too quickly. With the memory of his feverish, toe-curling kiss still fresh in her mind, she was on the brink of coming before she even got his cock inside her. When her orgasm hit, she collapsed in a boneless puddle against his chest, gasping and so lost in the pleasure she’d forgotten to deny him a release. And yet, he didn’t come. As if he were deliberately holding it back.

By the third day, she started questioning who was controlling whom. Just like the times before, she bathed him, teased him, and made him hard as a rock. Then she sat on his lap and rode him to the cusp of orgasm. He grunted vehement sounds with his teeth clamped tight. His eyes blazed. His sinews flexed, and she pushed him harder, faster, testing the limits of his self-restraint.

Instead of denying him a release, she teased him toward it.

She teased and teased until she wore herself out.

Still, he didn’t come.

How in the fresh hell was that possible?

Desperate to beat him at his game, she’d ordered the guards to shackle him during his time in the cell, preventing him from touching himself. His only relief would come with her, and much to her despair, that went both ways.

She slept beside Mike every night without a moment of privacy. It was for the best. She wasn’t here to engage in self-pleasure. Except, whenever she closed her eyes, Cole’s gorgeous face was waiting. His smirking lips. That bottomless brown gaze, searing into her thoughts.

Too often, she caught herself daydreaming, recreating the delicious sensation of his tongue in her mouth, the scratch of his beard on her cheeks, the sultry sounds of his breaths, and the intensity of his strokes.

Didn’t matter how tightly the rope cinched around him, he was incapable of holding still while inside her. He fucked her from the bottom, with his cock, his mouth, and the dominance in his dark glare. Every single time.