The Captive #8
“Your turn,” I whispered, reaching for the fastenings of his shirt.
He let me undress him.
The shirt came off first, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the scars that mirrored his history.
My fingers traced the ridge of one, the puckered edge of another, feeling the heat of him beneath my touch.
His breath hitched when I leaned in, pressing my lips to the scar that ran from his jaw to his collarbone.
“Duchess,” he rumbled, his hands tangling in my hair in a warning I ignored.
I worked at the fastenings of his trousers, my fingers fumbling slightly in my eagerness. When they finally fell away, his cock sprang free, thick and hard, the head already glistening with arousal.
I wrapped my hand around him, feeling the pulse of his blood beneath my palm, the velvety softness of his skin over steel.
He shuddered, his breath coming faster. “Bozhe moi,” he gasped, his voice rough with need.
I didn’t know the words, but I understood the prayer.
A thrill shot through me—power, pure and heady. This man, this wolf of the steppe, was at my mercy, despite me being his captive.
I stroked him, slow and firm, my thumb swirling over the slick head, watching his face as pleasure twisted his features.
“I could get down on my knees for you, Dmitri,” I murmured, my voice thick with desire. The Supplicant Swan. The thought of it made my cunny clench, slick with arousal. “Would you like that?”
His dark eyes burned into mine, his jaw tightening. For a moment, I thought he would say yes, that he would let me take him into my mouth, let me taste him, let me show him how much I had learned over these last dozen years.
But then his expression shifted—something fierce, something possessive—and he surged forward, his hands closing around my waist.
“I would not have my men think I couldn’t provide for my krasivaya,” he growled.
Before I could react, he scooped me up over his shoulder, my world tilting as my stomach pressed against his muscled back. I gasped, my hands scrambling for purchase, but his grip was iron.
“Dmitri!” I cried, half-laughing, half-protesting.
He smacked my arse, hard enough to sting. “Quiet, woman,” he commanded, his voice dark with amusement. “You are mine, and I mean to take you.”
The bed came into view as he turned, and then I was flying through the air, bouncing onto the furs with a breathless oof. He followed me down, crawling over me like a wolf stalking prey, his dark eyes locked onto mine.
My breath caught in my throat.
He was magnificent; all hard muscle and rough edges, his cock jutting proudly between his thighs, his scars gleaming in the lamplight. And the way he looked at me…like I was something precious, something he had claimed and would never let go.
“First,” he murmured, his voice a velvet threat, “I will make you scream for me again.”
He lowered his mouth to my throat, his lips hot against my skin. I arched into the kiss, my fingers tangling in his hair as he trailed his mouth down my body…over my collarbone, between my breasts, his tongue swirling around one nipple before he took it between his teeth.
I gasped, my back arching off the bed as pleasure shot through me. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, his hands roaming over my ribs, my stomach, his touch both greedy and reverent.
Then his palm slid down my belly to rest possessively over my mound.
At the first brush of his fingers over my clitoris, I moaned and lifted my hips, as if I could thrust my core closer to him. He chuckled against my nipple and shifted his angle so he could stroke my folds with his fingers and my pearl with his callused thumb.
My fingers twined through his dark hair as his beard tormented my delicate skin. He slid a second finger inside me, the coarseness intoxicating.
“Dmitri!” His name tore from my lips, desperate and needy.
He chuckled against my flesh, the vibration making me whimper. “Da, little rabbit. Scream for me.”
I wasn’t ready to scream, not yet, but I settled for another moan as I writhed beneath his expert ministrations. When he clamped my nipple between his teeth and tugged gently, I gasped loudly.
“Oh God!” My hips bucked, my fingers yanking at his hair. “Dmitri, please—”
His laughter was dark. “Augusta, my duchess, I want you to come. Should I use my mouth on you?”
Last night he’d done that so selflessly, and just the memory of his mouth on me sent a flutter through my inner muscles that he felt and hummed in response to.
“You want that?”
“Please,” I gasped, tugging at him ineffectively. “I want your mouth on my cunny again.”
Dmitri straightened, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction, and slid his fingers from my channel. I made a noise of disappointment, but he didn’t give me long to reflect.
His hands gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh as he suddenly sat up, pulling me with him. Before I could question, he flipped me onto my hands and knees, the furs soft beneath my palms.
“Just like a stallion, eh?” My captor’s voice was a dark chuckle, rough with amusement and something deeper—something hungry.
I barely had time to process his words before I felt his breath, hot and damp, against the sensitive skin of my arse. Then—oh God!—his tongue.
He licked me from behind, a long, slow stroke that started at my clitoris and dragged upward, over my entrance, all the way to the tight ring of muscle between my cheeks. I gasped, my back arching, my fingers curling into the furs.
The Cossack’s Claim. That’s what I would call this position, were I to add an addendum to the Harlot’s Guide. The woman on her hands and knees, the man behind her, his mouth worshipping her from cunny to arse, claiming every inch of her.
The filthiness of it sent a jolt of shameful pleasure through me.
No one had ever—ever!—touched me like this.
His tongue swirled around my entrance, then dragged upward again, teasing the sensitive skin of my arse.
I whimpered, my hips instinctively pressing back against his face, my body begging for more.
My wolf chuckled, the vibration making me shudder. “Greedy little rabbit,” he murmured, his breath hot against my skin. “You like that, da? You like my tongue on your sweet arse?”
I couldn’t form words. My cunny was throbbing, slick with need, my body aching to be filled despite my recent orgasm. I rocked back against him again, a wordless plea.
He teased me mercilessly. His tongue circled my entrance, dipped inside me just enough to make me gasp, then dragged upward again, flicking against the tight pucker of my arse. His fingers joined the assault, stroking through my folds, finding my clitoris, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles.
“Dmitri, please,” I begged, my voice breaking. “I need you—”
“I know what you need,” he growled, his voice dark with promise.
Then he straightened, his hands gripping my hips, his cock pressing against my entrance. I held my breath, my body trembling with anticipation.
And then—finally!—he slid into me.
I cried out as Dmitri’s cock filled me, stretching me, owning me.
He was thicker than I’d imagined, longer, the head of his cock pressing deep inside me, hitting places no man had ever reached.
The sensation was overwhelming—pleasure bordering on pain, the stretch burning sweetly as my body gave way, accepting him, needing him.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice rough, then spat out something in Russian I couldn’t understand before gasping, “You’re so tight, Augusta.”
His praise made me spiral higher as he pushed into me, making me feel as if I were the most incredible bedmate he’d fucked.
My captor bottomed out, his hips flush against my arse, and I whimpered, my body clenching around him. The angle was exquisite, his cock dragging against that rough spot inside me, the one that made my vision blur.
Then he began to move.
His first thrust sent me soaring. My cunny spasmed around him, my pleasure crashing over me with a force that stole my breath. I cried out, my body convulsing, my fingers clawing at the furs as wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through me.
“Dmitri!” His name tore from my lips, desperate and needy.
He groaned, his hands tightening on my hips. “That’s it, little rabbit. Milk my cock.”