Page 13 of Captive Ruin

He slips out of me, his supporting arm taken away, and I slump over the table, my legs not steady enough to support my weight. I can’t feel him anymore; he’s stepped away.

There’s a brief delay, then my panties land on the wood beside my head, stained with his cum. I glance over my shoulder, and he’s tucking himself into his boxers. He readjusts his clothing, fastening his belt, and slicks back his already perfect hair.

His gaze falls to my ass, still raised up, because I haven’t summoned the strength to stand. I struggle to rise, not wanting him to look at me like that when he’s fully dressed, but he’s on me in two quick paces. One hand lands between my shoulder blades, pinning me back down, and the other slaps into my ass, drawing another pained gasp from me.

Is he going to spank me again? After all this?

But he doesn’t. Instead, he slides two fingers between my labia, probing my entrance, making me aware of how sore and sensitive I am. Then his hand comes around, fingers glistening in the dim light, held before my face.

“Lick.”

I turn my head away, pressing my lips together. I’ve done everything he asks; isn’t that enough?

His hand finds its usual grip on my braid, and he shakes my head. “Lick.”

Reluctantly, I open my mouth. He doesn’t wait but pushes his fingers in, rubbing them over my tongue. I taste his cum again, mixed with mine, the combined essence of his use of me.

“Next time we meet, I trust you’ll be more prudent with your choice of insults.”

There won’t be a next time.

Understatement of the century.

I nod jerkily, as much as his grip on my hair will allow.

“I’m not going to let you keep the hairs you took from Steven Serranto.”

Fuck. After all this? That’s just not fair. I glare up at him.

“Instead,” he continues, “I will ensure he never bothers you nor your sister again.”

Yeah? How is he going to do that?

He pauses, holding my gaze, eyes in shadow yet no less intense for all that. “You have my word.”

That promise lands with a certainty I have no business feeling for a man I met an hour ago and hate with every fiber of my being, yet somehow I know—I know—that neither Lucy nor I will ever have to worry about Serranto again.

I meet his eyes, dark pools gleaming with reflected light, and nod my understanding and acceptance. Perhaps even my thanks.

No, not that. He doesn’t deserve it.

He releases me, stepping away, and I struggle to push myself upright as he retrieves my clutch from the ground near the door. There’s nothing I can do as he unzips it, removing the tissue I so carefully wrapped the stolen hairs in, pushing it into his pocket. Then he sweeps up the jacket that I knelt on, and sets them both on a table.

“I’ll have Haynes drive you home,” he says, collecting his own jacket and shrugging it back on.

I straighten, leaning against the edge of the table, my legs still shaky. “Haynes?” I ask, as I try to pull my dress up to cover my breasts. It won’t stay without the straps, and the bra is useless.

“My man inside the door. When you’re ready, he’ll take you.”

He stands there, watching me, expectant.

“Thank you.” It’s a common courtesy, but the words feel like they’ve been clawed from my throat.

He inclines his head, slowly, then turns on his heel and walks to the door. I watch him leave.

But he pauses with one hand on the handle, looking back at me. “Good night, Amelia. I won’t bother telling you to have sweet dreams of me, because we both know you will.”

Then he opens the door and steps through, my retort still forming.