Enthralled (The Enslaved Duet 1)

His nose crunched slightly, and a bead of blood rolled out of his nostril.

I howled like a beast in triumph.

Alexander took advantage of my gloating to flip me on to my stomach and crawl on top of me, pinning my legs and arms to the floor so solidly, I felt nailed to the ground.

“Never let passion rule,” he advised against my damp neck. “It is cool minds that prevail.”

He let me up even though I liked the hot press of him against me, and to my surprise, he began to teach me. I learned how to subdue my attacker if he grabbed me from behind, if he took me to the ground on my belly, and if he held a gun to my temple. We practiced for well over an hour until both of us were slicked with each other’s sweat and our breaths worked through our lungs like billows.

“Come at me,” I dared him finally, crouched low with my hands loose at my sides ready to fight him.

“Winner gets to fuck the other,” Alexander parried.

He would win.

We both knew he would, and I doubted there would ever be a time—however often I practiced or proficient I became—that he wouldn’t beat me in a wrestling match.

This bet wasn’t about the impossibility of my victory. It was forcing me to acknowledge that I didn’t want to win.

I wanted him to.

“Deal,” I said, and then I pounced.

I swept one of his legs out from under him, then I went for his throat with a vicious punch. It was a cocky maneuver, which was why I decided to do it because I assumed Alexander would be looking for easier movements.

He was ready for anything.

I winced as he caught my fist and twisted, taking me to the floor with the pain, both of us on our knees, facing each other.

We blinked, suspended in the moment when a prey knew it was in the sights of its predator. And then he attacked.

I was pinned with my wrists to the ground and his heavy body straddling my belly in less than a heartbeat.

He’d taught me how to break such a hold, though, so I thrust my hips and jerked my arms down toward them, jerking him forward so sharply he nearly fell on his face.

Only, he was too quick and strong.

He caught me again by the ankle as I tried to crawl away, and then he dragged me kicking and yelling under his body. With a vicious yank, he broke the closure of my dress so that the colourful fabric spooled beneath us like crushed flowers. I gasped as he cupped my sex, then ripped the fabric there too, the expensive lingerie shredding to bits in his fingers.

His cock was suddenly in his fist, swollen and an angrier red than I’d ever seen it.

He thrusted inside me, parting my molten folds like a spear arrowing to the very depths of me.

“To the victor, the spoils,” he growled into my ear as he pinned my wrists down in one hand and used the other to choke me lightly.

He set a punishing pace, angling his hips so that his thick head dragged against that knot of nerves on my front wall. The light stubble on his groin rasped against my aching clit, nudging the piercing back and forth so that my entire sex filled with static electricity.

I held him tight to my body even though he hurt me, because he hurt me.

I loved the way his teeth bit into the tender flesh of my neck and breasts, how violet bruises and ruddy poppies bloomed beneath my skin at his touch. The ache of him in my sex as he planted himself deep and finally came with a rough shout like a warrior claiming triumph over the death of a fallen foe.

I was fallen, sunk beneath the depths of his darkness, and so entrenched in the underworld, I knew there would never be any going back.

Five years might pass, the contract between us might dissolve into dust with time, but I would always be, elementally and crucially, Master Alexander’s woman.

In the next two weeks, I was fucked so thoroughly, I couldn’t walk without the echo of his cock between my legs. My body was sore to the bone, skin burst with bruises, and muscles burned from the constant stretch and pull of my limbs worked into wicked positions. I learned the difference between the wide spread heat of a flogging, the mounting burn of a paddling, and the excruciating, venomous bite of a whip. In fact, he used me so completely each day that there wasn’t a single moment I was free from the reminder of sex. I wore it on my body and housed it in my mind. A moan of want or protest seemed lodged in my throat like a lozenge that wouldn’t pass.