Page 109 of Captive Ruin

He throws it to the floor with a curse, reaching in again. The cuffs come out next, each cut neatly in two, and Van Wyk growls.

“You’re a bad girl.”

“You’re damn right I am.”

“Do you know what happens to bad girls?” His body twists to give him room, and his hand slaps down into my ass again, sending bolts of fire straight to my pussy.

“They get abandoned,” I hiss at him through the sting, blinking back tears not from the pain, but because he left me. He dared.

“I’m here now.” His weight shifts off me, but he’s still gripping my neck. “Lift your ass up and spread your legs.”

“Make me,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Make yourself.” His fingers rub through my folds. “You’re soaking, Little Stray. You want this as much as I do.”

“The hell I do.” I try for defiance, but his touch feels so good that it comes out breathy with need.

“Have it your way.” His hand leaves me, but he keeps me pinned against the bed by my neck while he pulls loose his belt. The leather slaps loosely against my ass, and for a breath-stealing moment I think he’s going to use it on me. Then the sound of his zipper follows.

I feel him pressing hard against me, the head of him rubbing through my folds, and I can’t help the way my back arches. I’m offering myself to him like a cat in heat, and he doesn’t delay.

Van Wyk thrusts forward, spearing into me, hard enough to make me cry out. I’m stretched by him, pain and pleasure mingling, but the pleasure quickly wins out. His cock fills me perfectly, and I’m so wet, so open to him, so ready for him after all this time.

He’s not gentle. His hand closes on my braid, pulling my head back, using it like a handle as he fucks me. “Tell me you need this,” he growls.

“Go to hell.” But I can’t help clench around him, my body trying to draw him in deeper. There’s no stopping my response to him; there never has been. The truth is, I’m not even denying it anymore. Fighting him is foreplay; pushing him is encouragement.

“Been there before,” he grunts as he fucks me with long, hard strokes. “But I’ll always come back when you make videos like that.”

I don’t even regret it. Not when he’s taking me so hard, so good.

His hips slap against my ass, each thrust rubbing over my g-spot. My legs are trembling in moments, my ass lifting so that he goes deeper, and my cries fill the room.

His grunts of effort match his pace, and it’s relentless. He’s fucking me like a man starving, like he hasn’t seen me for a year, not merely two weeks. His grip shifts to my neck, slipping around the side, half on my shoulder, and he pulls me into him with each thrust.

I’m a ragdoll for his pleasure, but it’s mine too. This is brutal, fast, hard, and exactly what I needed. My orgasm rushes to meet me, and I lose myself in the feeling, gripping the sheets to try and ground myself.

His breathing grows ragged, his rhythm stumbling. I know he’s close already. Then he draws in a sharp breath, half wince, half hiss, like he’s in pain. Maybe I did catch his balls with my knee. That would explain it. The bastard deserves it.

Van Wyk steadies, releasing my neck and both hands gripping my hips, fingers digging in. His pace increases, hammering into me, and I clench my fingers in the sheet, bracing my arms as I grind back against him.

It’s all I need. My orgasm rips through me, arriving so suddenly my world turns white. I cry out, pleasure consuming me from within in endless waves. I collapse against the bed, my legs unable to support me, but it doesn’t stop him fucking me.

He gives another pained grunt then drives into me, his cock twitching inside me as hot spurts of his seed splash within, and it prolongs my orgasm, ecstasy so intense I can’t even breathe.

His weight leans into me as he catches his breath, and I’m pressed into the mattress.

“I need… a minute,” he gasps out, then I feel him slip from within me with a rush of wetness down my thighs. He crashes onto the bed beside me, chest rising and falling, his eyes closed, a hand falling toward me.

I grasp it with mine, waiting for my heart to stop racing and my breathing to steady.

It takes me a moment to realize we’re holding hands, and I instigated it. Or did he? I craved his touch, like I’ve been craving him. My fingers lace through his, and it’s the most natural thing that’s happened in the last two weeks. I don’t pull back; I grip tighter.

“Why were you gone for so long?” I ask, tone sounding aggrieved in my own ears as I struggle onto the bed, my legs weak, and collapse half over him.

“I didn’t intend—” He cuts off with a hiss, and this time there’s no doubt it’s pain.

“What?” I ask in alarm. “What is it?”