Page 28 of Captive Ruin

I let the towel fall to the floor and lie on my bed, hands roaming, thoughts circling.

His voice in my head.

“You can apologize and beg for me to spank you, and then I’ll fuck your pussy. Or you can be recalcitrant, in which case I’ll take your ass.”

“Pussy,” I murmur again, the same choice, even though since then I’ve thought of him taking my ass. One hand slips between my legs, the other caressing my breast.

I take my time, teasing myself, biting at my lip. My hips lift, wanting more than just my fingers. There are toys in the nightstand, but I don’t reach for them, deliberately keeping my touch light. Drawing it out.

The bath oils have made my skin soft, my razor made me smooth, and it all feels more sensitive. I let out a moan, and as soon as I do, his voice is in my head.

“That’s beautiful to watch.”

If only he could see me now.

What would he do, I wonder?

Fantasies are safe, the reality very much not. And it doesn’t escape my attention it’s Van Wyk that fills my thoughts, not Scott, not the main character from the romance I’m reading.

Spreading my knees wider, I slide a finger inside myself, avoiding my clit. Pinching my nipple harder than I usually do, imagining the feel of the terrace table beneath my breasts, my ass raised up. Maybe I should—

A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts, and my eyes flick open.

Now? Really?

The only people I’ve given the building code to are my sister and Scott, and it won’t be him. A neighbor, maybe?

Muttering, I push myself up, pulling my silk robe from the back of the bedroom door. Slipping it on as I pad through the apartment, belting the sash.

Some goddamn Amazon package delivered to the wrong address. That’s what it usually is. Lucy hasn’t told me she’s coming. Maybe it’s her, and something’s gone wrong.

Shit… maybe she’s heard from Serranto.

I open the door.

He’s standing there, holding his phone with some video playing on the screen, but he looks up, sliding it into his pocket. “Good evening.”

Blood rushes through me, and my pulse pounds in my ears. For too long, I’m frozen in shock, unable to move.

Then I slam the door in his face.

He slaps his palm against it before it can close, and forces it back open.

“Now, now,” Van Wyk says. “None of that.”

I step back in reflex, retreating down my hallway. He walks in like I invited him and closes the door. He’s wearing a tailored light blue suit over a crisp white shirt, black shoes polished to a shine, everything immaculate like he’s dressed for the boardroom or a dinner, not a home invasion.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, like the answer isn’t obvious. “How did you find me?”

“I missed you,” he replies, voice soft. He walks in, looking about himself, taking in my apartment. I see it as if for the first time, wondering what he makes of it. The sofa before the TV. My armchair, large enough to lose myself in while I read. The open-plan kitchen. The doorway to my bedroom, my black dress visible on the bed. The duvet crumpled where I just lay.

At least it’s tidy.

Fuck, Amelia. ‘At least it’s tidy’?

“I don’t know why you’re here, but I need you to leave,” I tell him, my voice as steady as I can make it. Not very.

“I’ve only just arrived,” he says, coming on slowly, straight toward me.