As she made her way back up, she found him watching her, his lids half-mast and lips parted, breathless. Christ, that look on his gorgeous face, the sheer intensity in his eyes, awakened her pulse and spread fire through her circulation.
Without averting her gaze, she sucked him with vigor. The heavy hardness of him pressed down on her tongue, leaking salty beads of arousal from the tip. She lapped it up and felt her own moisture trickling down her thighs.
Since the hem of the dress fell to her knees, she’d gone without panties. Ideal for her position with his leg locked between hers. She rested her pussy against his thigh and let him feel the wetness, rubbing against his hard muscles and soaking his skin.
His groan of pleasure was the greatest reward, spurring her to grind harder as she took him deep into her throat. Her fingers gently kneaded and tugged at the soft heavy bag below his shaft. She hummed around his girth, swallowing a gush of pre-cum and savoring his clean, salty flavor.
She’d performed this act countless times with dozens of men in her adult life, none of which had left a lasting impression. But she would never forget this one. Not his taste, nor his velvety texture, nor the molten desire in his sexy brown eyes.
The man was fucking hot, and the more she pushed and pulled and licked, the more he failed to conceal his reactions. Muscles contracted on top of muscles. His feet scraped and dug against the floor. His exhales chased his inhales, his jaw tipping up, straining with the tautness of his body.
She added her teeth, scratching up and down his silky, turgid flesh, and his groaning turned to growls. His erection grew impossibly harder, and his spine bowed with the force of his need.
Her mouth was beginning to take its toll.
She pushed on, devouring him with slobbery, teeth-cutting, vulgar strokes. There was nothing clean or sweet about the way she sucked cock. But this kinky bastard didn’t care. He liked it sick and depraved. The dirtier, the better. Same as her.
With a hand clenched around his sac, she squeezed his dense balls while pressing a fingertip against the tight, silken entrance of his rectum.
“Fuck.” He gasped, shaking and flexing, his eyes wild as he stared down the length of his body. “What are you doing?”
“You like your ass fingered.” She stroked the little clenching knot of flesh.
“Help me out here because I’m getting mixed signals.” His chest heaved, and a twitch kicked up the corner of his lips. “Are you trying to deny orgasms? Or force them?”
Damn him and that lopsided smirk.
She flicked her tongue against the head of his cock and licked deep into the tiny slit, earning another trickle of salty fluid. “Depends.”
“On?” He struggled to push the word past his choking breaths.
“You.”
Beautiful, strapping, rugged, seductive, iron-willed Cole Hartman. She had eleven years of patience and planning riding on his willingness to cooperate.
It was hopeless.
This man wasn’t going to help her in exchange for an orgasm. He was stronger than his baser needs. Smarter.
And he didn’t want her.
She knew it weeks ago. But she had to try.
So she renewed her efforts, worshiping every inch of his gorgeous cock. She sucked him with everything she had, working her fist along his length, applying just the right balance of tongue and teeth.
His hips snapped upward, desperately trying to ram himself into the back of her throat, and his groans ran away from him. He was an ensnared beast, seething and bucking in the tethers of his restraints, testing the strength of the rope.
“What do you want from me, woman?” he snarled.
A loaded question. One she could only half-answer. “You know what I want.”
He halted abruptly but for the flexing of his need in her mouth. His jaw hardened, and the air changed, growing colder, thinner. His gaze fell flat, and his muscles loosened beneath her.
She continued sucking him, but he wasn’t feeling it.
Neither was she.
His erection didn’t deflate, but the energy between them all but dissipated, the moment gone.
“Hurry along with your games, Lydia,” he said in a cruel tone. “I’m growing bored.”
Her stomach sank.
He didn’t want her. No amount of seduction would change that.
She’d wasted a month trying to force a different outcome. Because she knew that the suffering he’d endured at her hands was a whole lot better than the brutality that would come from Vincent Barrington’s men.
But she’d failed. White torture, psychological manipulation, isolation, blow jobs—he was immune to it all.
Disappointment constricted her chest. She needed more from him. Far more than the hard drive’s location.
She needed him to help her retrieve it. But she couldn’t tell him that. Not until she trusted him. Until he trusted her. And that would never happen.
Because he despised her.
He despised the way she looked, the way she spoke, the things she did. Could she blame him? She’d threatened his friends, captured him, and raped him. She was a horrible person.
With her heart in her throat, she sat back on her heels and admitted defeat. She only had one option left, and if that didn’t work, Vincent would get rid of her and let the team slice, dice, break, and ultimately kill Cole for the information in his head.
She couldn’t allow that. Not while there was still blood in her body.
Determination chased away the trembling in Lydia’s legs as she strode to the bag she’d left nearby.
The guards were never in the warehouse during her sessions with Cole. But Mike was. Always. He remained close, out of view, armed, and ready to step in if Cole managed to overpower her or escape his restraints.
Knowing Mike listened to her having sex with another man was upsetting. But they shared an unusual bond with a complicated background. They would survive this like they’d survived everything else over the past eleven years. Together.
She glanced in the direction of the exit, unable to see his position around the corner. But he was there. She bet her life on it.
From the bag, she removed a laptop, launched a recorded video, and set it on the floor beside Cole’s head.
He glared at the rafters, refusing to look at the screen. The same reaction he had the night she showed him the footage of the drone. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that whatever she intended to show him would hurt. It would hurt worse than anything he’d endured so far.
She pressed play on the video and stepped back, detaching herself from his impending pain. God, how she’d tried to avoid this. Tried and failed.
Because the way to Cole Hartman wasn’t through his stomach or his dick.
It was through his heart.
The video began, streaming sultry music through the warehouse. His entire body turned to stone.
Slowly, his neck twisted, his eyes shifting toward the screen. His expression, starkly blank, gave nothing away. He lifted his head, straining to see around the bulge of his bicep. She couldn’t see the video, but she knew it well.
The glittery costume, sensual hip rotations, long golden hair, and room full of admirers were but a backdrop to the main attraction.
Danni Savoy was stunning. With huge gray eyes, flawless skin, and a body that dripped sex, she wasn’t just a gorgeous woman. She was a gorgeous belly dancer. Dear God, the woman stood on that stage and danced like no one was watching—shameless and serene, self-possessed and sinfully, enchantingly talented. And everyone was watching.