'Tell me you want my cock buried in your wet cunt, Eva,' he demanded, making my hips buck up toward him in silent invitation as his hand moved from the back of my neck to slip into my hair, sliding down the strands until he was halfway down, knowing it hurt more there, knowing how much I liked that. Then yanking hard enough to make me arch as far as my body would allow.
Denver didn't like to be kept waiting.
Or to be disobeyed.
Or even to give me his real goddamn name.
But I didn't need to know his name to know I wanted his giant cock stretching me as I was helpless to do anything but take it, but beg for release from the relentless ache of desire.
'I want your cock buried in me,' I told him, hearing the rawness of need in my voice.
'That's not what I said,' he scolded.
I knew it was coming a second before the belt snapped across the lowest part of my ass, the bite of it stinging against my pussy at the same time, the pain—and the pleasure it brought me—so intense that I nearly came right then and there.
A part of me wanted to pretend like I didn't know what he wanted me to say, to get more of that sharp, perfect pain I loved so much, the pain that no other man had ever given me, the pain that only Denver knew I enjoyed so much.
The other part of me, though, needed to feel him inside me. And if I kept testing him, he wouldn't fuck me as punishment. He would whip my ass, then push me down on the bed and fuck my mouth instead."
I turned back at Ace's sudden silence, finding his gaze on me, his head cocked to the side, reading my face as soon as he could see it.
"Not a sex book?" he asked, voice as rough as my nerve endings felt.
"I, ah," I started, needing to stop to clear my throat. "I'm sure there is a plot somewhere," I insisted.
"Hm," he said, flipping randomly to another page.
"'We can't do this here,' I insisted as Denver's fingers slipped inside my panties, pushing inside me, and thrusting hard and fast.
I could hear the conversation of a couple walking down the street, commenting on the decor in the window of the store we were currently down the side alley of.
'It looks like we already are,' he corrected, lowering down up under my skirt, licking up my cleft, sealing his lips around my clit..."
"Okay," I said, swallowing hard. "It's a sex book," I agreed, feeling the pulsating sensation between my thighs.
"What's the matter?" he asked, rising from his chair, stalking over toward me. "Having trouble hearing?" he asked, opening up the book again like he planned to keep reading.
"Don't," I demanded, feeling like there was a heavy weight pressing on my chest, making breathing hard.
"Why not?" he asked, towering over me. Close. Way, way too close. I would swear his nearness was making the air thicker, harder to breathe in.
"Just don't," I demanded, voice small, airless.
"Having flashbacks?" he asked, lips curving up slightly. "To me on my knees, sucking on your clit?" he asked.
God, that felt like forever ago. And yet only yesterday somehow at the same time.
"Ace, please," I demanded, my resolve to dislike him disintegrating with each passing second.
"Please what?" he asked, taking one more step forward, sucking up what was left of the air away from me as I craned my neck up to keep eye-contact. "Please walk away right now? Or please eat you out until you lose your voice?" he asked, and I swear I could feel him between my thighs with just his words.
"We can't," I objected, proud I could force any rational thoughts to form when my head felt slow and foggy.
"We can," he corrected.
"I... I think I have Stockholm Syndrome," I admitted out loud.
"Do you feel grateful toward me?" he asked.
"God, no," I admitted, getting a small chuckle out of him, a sound so rare that I found it fascinating.
"Do you admire me or agree with my plans?"
"No."
"Do you care about my needs or happiness?"
"Ah, not particularly," I said, feeling like he was talking me into a trap, but not sure how to free myself.
"Do you think that sleeping with me will help save you, or gain you something?"
"No."
"Then maybe it isn't Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe you just want to fuck me."
He made it sound so rational, so easy.
I couldn't tell anymore what was logical and what wasn't. What was fact, and what was a manipulation of the truth.
All I knew was he was right.
The heaviness in my chest, the weight on my lower stomach, my shallow breathing, the ache between my thighs, it all spoke to one thing.
I wanted to sleep with him.
Captor or not.