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“Use the oil,” he begs. “Please.”

His head rolls toward the table beside the bed. His breathing so broken and heavy that when he reaches to grab the oil, he has to pause long enough to draw in a deep breath before placing the little glass bottle into my hand.

“Please.”

His eyes meet mine.

Because he asked nicely, I pour the oil onto my hand and slick my fingers before sliding a digit inside him. Although his entire body reacts, this time he doesn’t try to buck me off or squirm away. The sounds he makes tonight aren’t screams. The second finger I press inside him yields the same result, and then, even as I watch, his dick begins to harden again.

I withdraw my hand and crawl on top of him, watching confusion flicker across his face, and when I thrust, he cries out.

“Wait! No.”

I pause, and when he grabs the oil from where it rests beside us, I think he’s pouring some into his hand so he can slick himself, though for what I don’t know. When he sits up, I slam him back down.

“I’m not fighting,” he says, his tone unhappy but accepting. “I just want—” He stops talking and reaches slowly for me, then coats my cock with oil. Him touching me feels better than anything that came before. He reaches between his own legs, smears the remaining oil around his hole, and then reluctantly lies back down.

All of it was reluctant, even touching me, but I liked it far more than I’ll admit out loud. When I lean over him again, now covered in oil, it’s so much easier for me to slide inside.

“Slowly. Slowly, please.”

When I take his advice, I realize it feels better for me too, so I inch in until I’m fully seated. Boone blows out a pent-up breath, his trembling hands coming up to rest on my shoulders as I begin moving and he buries his face against my neck. I can hear him moan and gasp, and when I draw back to look down at him, his eyes meet mine now, unflinching. Those warm brown eyes the color of fresh soil in the spring.

I kiss him, and he responds willingly, his hips lifting toward mine like he’s chasing something.

“I’m going to come again,” he gasps.

Confusion slams into me because everything we’re doing is what we’ve done every night since he arrived. I don’t understand why tonight, his body is responding like it is.

I push myself up so I can watch him, and his hips lift again as he gasps, “Don’t stop.”

I move again, and then his entire body tenses as I feel his cum slick between us. His cries no longer sound of pain but of ecstasy.

“Oh, God,” he moans. His shaking grows worse, except now it’s not because I’m hurting him.

I’m so confused by what just happened that I pull back and withdraw from him completely before climbing off the bed and getting to my feet.

He pushes himself up slowly behind me, confusion pinching his brows together as he watches me get dressed. “What did I do?” he asks nervously.

I don’t answer him, because I don’t know what I would say even if I tried. Instead, I slide my pants back on before walking straight out of the room.

14

Boone

His behavior terrifies me because I don’t understand it. The more I try to figure out what changed, the more unsettled I become. Did he lose interest because I wasn’t begging him to stop, because I wasn’t screaming or crying the way I usually do?

What I notice, not irrelevantly, is that the door to my room is still open, even though he locks me in every night once he’s done with me. He never lets me come either, doesn’t even try, but tonight was different because, somehow, it was … enjoyable. Even though he acted like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing.

I continue staring at the open doorway and the dimly lit corridor beyond it, where everything is illuminated by the same flickering candlelight that fills my room. Since he started fucking me weeks ago, I’ve woken up sore every morning. Right now, the ache is surprisingly mild, and when I push myself upright, I realize I’m covered in oil and cum.

I don’t even care.

I dress quickly, using the sheet to wipe away as much as I can before hurrying toward the door and pulling it all the way open. It’s much colder out here. When I look in both directions, he’s nowhere to be found.

I move cautiously because I’m afraid of him, and not knowing where he went makes every shadow along the corridor feel more threatening than it probably is. It’s so cold that I make it only a short distance before running back to my room for my wool sweater. When I return to the corridor, I turn right and continue walking, taking a candle that has burned down to half its original size from one of the wall sconces and holding it in front of a painted portrait.

There’s something familiar about the man’s face, something in the shape of his features that immediately reminds me of my captor. I wonder if this is his father or perhaps his grandfather, though it’s impossible to tell. I move on to the next portrait and find a woman staring back at me. A very pretty woman with dark hair and equally dark eyes. I reach up and carefully touch her painted face with the tip of my finger, noticing there isn’t a speck of dust on the canvas. Someone wiped it down recently.