Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)
His hands are gentle but firm when he pops the button of my jeans. He dips a hand into my underwear and curls a finger over my sex. The wetness that coats his digit tells him everything. The knowledge shows in the heated victory that shines in his eyes as he slowly drags his hand from my panties and up my stomach, leaving a wet trail on my skin.
Lifting my arms above my head, he pulls off my T-shirt. I sigh when our naked skins press together. His chest is hard, flattening my breasts under his weight. I hide beneath him, under his heat, letting his hands make me forget as he wiggles the jeans over my hips. I lift my ass to make his task easier, and he rewards me with a kiss on my nipple. His tongue is hot and wet. I arch my back to take more, but he releases the tip of my breast with a pop and sucks his way down my body, planting sloppy kisses on my stomach and legs until the jeans are tangled around my ankles. Holding my eyes, he works them free. I know what he’s looking for. I know what he’s going to ask even before he opens his mouth.
“Do you want me, baby doll?”
He knows the answer, but he wants me to say it. I’m caught in a web of crimes and dirty deeds. I’ve crossed the line so many times already, but none of those times were by choice. He made me an accomplice, but I still have my truth. It’s a beacon of light in the muddiness that has become my life. I’m sinking deeper into the darkness, and this truth is the only string tying me to the light. I hold on to it for dear life, willing it not to snap, because when it does, I’ll be lost forever.
“Do you, Cas?” he asks, moving a hand between our bodies and resting two fingers on my clit. He doesn’t give me more. He simply holds his touch there, waiting for my response.
My voice is firm, my answer honest. “Yes.”
He palms a breast as he leans over and takes a condom from the nightstand before lifting his ass in silent instruction for me to unfasten his jeans. I push them over his hips. He does the rest of the work, undressing before tearing open the foil packet and sheathing himself.
When he tears into me, it’s rushed and greedy. He indulges himself, taking everything when he thrusts harder and deeper. He’s unstoppable, devouring my body like he’s afraid it will disappear. Lifting on his elbows, he looks into my eyes. He stares at me like he can’t believe I’m real. He consumes me like a man who’s afraid the illusion will vanish. When he’s had his fill, he slows, giving me time to catch up.
He sits up on his knees, pulling me with him without breaking our contact. His hair falls over his face as he dips his head to suck a nipple into his mouth. He knows what I need to come. Moving a hand between our bodies, he finds my clit and rolls the nub between his fingers. My orgasm builds instantly. I lock my ankles around his waist and grab his shoulders for support.
When the pleasure erupts, he kisses my neck. He kisses my shoulder and my jaw. My lips are the treat he keeps for last, for when he comes. When he empties himself inside the condom, I know there’s no coming back from this. Truth or lies, his prisoner or not, there’s no coming back from crossing this line.
The knowledge beats with fear in my chest as he pulls out and turns on his side without discarding the condom. Gathering me in his arms, he pulls my back against his chest and throws a thigh over me.
“Sleep,” he says in a sex-drenched voice, grazing his stubble over the sensitive skin behind my ear.
I shiver. A soft kiss falls on my temple as he pulls the blanket over us.
Closing my eyes, I drown out reality, not because I’m in denial, but because it’s going to take more energy than I possess to cope with the facts when morning comes.
Chapter 3
Ian
The aroma of the five o’clock morning coffee I had still hangs in the dining room when Ruben’s contact, a man known as Mossie, arrives. I instructed Leon to schedule the meeting early on purpose, while Cas is still asleep. I’m planning on making sure she can never leave here, hence it’s not in her interest that she’s around to witness this. The knowledge won’t be good for her morale. I don’t want to rub it in.
Despite his name, the guy who’s arranging the security equipment on the dining room table doesn’t resemble a little gray bird. He’s a giant with sly eyes, every inch of visible skin except for his face covered in colorful tattoos. He’s wearing dark jeans, combat boots, and a leather vest over a T-shirt. I don’t take exception to the cattle whip tucked into his waistband. There are many ways to kill with a cattle whip—whipping, that goes without saying, and strangling—but carrying the weapon isn’t a threat. It’s just part of the attire for guys like us.