Or maybe she just wanted him to think that.
Bowing into him, she rode his cock and huffed strangled gasps of air against his mouth. She was so close he wanted to kiss her. Almost as much as he wanted to bite her and make her bleed.
Instead, he lifted into her vigorous need, grunting, ramming his hips, and washing them both with brutal sensations. All else ceased to exist, everything but her body, her breaths, and the intensity of her livid gaze.
Her eyes were like pieces of kryptonite, deep green and luminescent, weakening him by the second. His dick wanted release. His mind wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t give in.
But as they moved together, their tempos syncing and gazes locked, he felt a sliding sensation. Deep in his chest, he felt a tilting, tumbling avalanche that had nothing to do with the earthquaking motion of their bodies.
Before his brain caught up, his mouth was on her, kissing her so thoroughly he damn near exploded inside her.
He didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. She kissed him back with the same desperation, and the feel of her tongue rubbing and tangling with his was all that mattered.
They melted together, holding each other hostage with their mouths, their thrusts, and harmonious tremors in their bodies. Her hands moved to his face, fingers clamping firmly around his jaw, her lips crashing against his with the force of her passion.
Lost in the throes of frenzied lust, she used him for her pleasure. It was the moment he’d been waiting for, watching her get worked up, feeling his cock sink past her defenses, and knowing her race to completion was no longer about the job and all about the demands of her body.
At that moment, he held the control. He’d mastered her with his hands tied.
Breaking the kiss, he leaned back and admired his handiwork.
She stopped moving, her cheeks flushed, and her snug little pussy clenched spasmodically around his buried cock. She released shallow, rapid-fire breaths and blinked slowly, with great effort, as if struggling to concentrate.
When she realized what she’d done, that she’d lost control of herself, her expression hardened.
Was she angry? Oh, fuck yeah. Ten strangling little expressions of her rage curled around his throat, her blunt nails pressing against his airway in a bid to choke him.
Just as quickly, she regained her composure, released his neck, and shoved his face away.
But she wasn’t finished.
Rising on her knees, she pulled off of his cock. He bobbed against her thigh, wanting back in as she reached under her skirt and swept her fingers along the flesh he still hadn’t seen.
Her free hand went to his shoulder, holding her upper body steady as she proceeded to rub her cunt. Her knuckles brushed against his unspent cock, teasing him as she chased her release. She shook with the effort, moaning, muscles straining, lashes fluttering, her eyes smoldering with animosity.
A sound of feral relief stole from her throat, and she screamed, groaning, trembling, and coming undone.
Fucking glorious. Hotter than hell. Had he been inside her, he might’ve shot his load, which was precisely what he didn’t want to do. He refused to give her that.
And to think, she intended to deny him.
It’s a ride you won’t ever get off.
She thought she could torture him with orgasm denial. Little did she know, he had the discipline of a monk.
Climbing to her feet, she swiped her soaked fingers across his mouth. He licked his lips, tasting her, while holding her blistering glare.
Her teeth clenched. “Tell me who bought the hard drive, and I’ll relieve that ache between your legs.”
“No, thanks. I’ll relieve it myself.”
“You’re going to jerk off in that filthy cell? Where you can’t hear yourself think?”
“Yep.” He stretched out his legs, delighting in the way her hungry eyes caressed his swollen cock. “I’m a dirty…dirty…dirty man.”
“I could shackle you while you’re in there.”
“You don’t want to do that because you like thinking about me touching myself. But when I do, it won’t be you I’m thinking about. My heart lies elsewhere.”
A flicker of hurt crossed her expression, and she looked away, pretending indifference by straightening her clothes and tucking in her tits.
“You, on the other hand, will not get off without me.”
Her head shot up at that, eyes wide. “What did you say?”
“Nothing touches that pussy but me. Not Mike. Not your men. Not your fingers. Your body belongs to me.”
She made a sound of disbelief that morphed into a sneer of disgust. Then she spun away and stormed to the exit without looking back.
Later, she would think back and relive every thrust, every grunt, every intimate second of eye contact, and she would think about his command.
She would attempt to touch herself because she wanted to hate him. But she wouldn’t go through with it because she wanted him. And that want would bring her back for more.
He might not survive it, but he would be ready for her.
Three days later, Lydia stood over Cole’s nude body, fighting an inner battle between duty and decency.
For as long as she could remember, duty had always won out. She’d lied, cheated, stolen, kidnapped, and sold her soul to the devil in the name of duty.
Her purpose was greater than Cole’s life, her own, and that of anyone who tried to stop her. She was prepared to do anything and everything to finish this.
Or so she thought.
As she took in the rope that secured his powerful frame to the factory floor, her stomach churned with an unexpected sense of wrongness. What she was doing to him was unacceptable. Indecent. Unforgivable.
Was she developing a goddamn conscience after all these years? Or was it worse? Was she developing feelings for her prisoner?
Lima Syndrome, the inverse of Stockholm syndrome. She knew it could happen. She just didn’t think it could happen to her.
It needed to stop.
The moment she met Cole, she knew this wouldn’t be easy. Mike had known long before, which was why he’d fought so hard against this plan.
Cole belonged on a motorcycle with a rifle on his back, flying down a lone highway on some hell-raising mission. He didn’t belong in restraints, stripped of his clothes and his freedom, and forced to endure another rape.
Because that was what this was. No matter how hard his dick grew in her hands. He wasn’t a willing participant. He was a prisoner, and in the last three days, she’d raped him three times, each time finishing herself off while denying him a completion.
The first time, she convinced herself he was right there with her, fucking her as passionately as she fucked him. She thought, when he was seconds from climax, that he was too injured to come. He’d just fought off the raging blows of ten men, his face swollen and covered in blood. But he hadn’t flinched when she’d washed his wounds. It was as if he didn’t even feel the pain.
The second day, she orgasmed too quickly. With the memory of his feverish, toe-curling kiss still fresh in her mind, she was on the brink of coming before she even got his cock inside her. When her orgasm hit, she collapsed in a boneless puddle against his chest, gasping and so lost in the pleasure she’d forgotten to deny him a release. And yet, he didn’t come. As if he were deliberately holding it back.
By the third day, she started questioning who was controlling whom. Just like the times before, she bathed him, teased him, and made him hard as a rock. Then she sat on his lap and rode him to the cusp of orgasm. He grunted vehement sounds with his teeth clamped tight. His eyes blazed. His sinews flexed, and she pushed him harder, faster, testing the limits of his self-restraint.