The Captive #5
The lady, waylaid, is bent forward over saddle or stile and bids to hold fast while the rogue takes his payment from behind, his hands free to roam where they please.
Named for the toll every traveler must pay, and gladly, if the road is a good one.
This game can be enjoyed to everyone’s satisfaction if the “bandit” is a generous man.
The illustration showed the man’s fist wound in the lady’s hair. Her mouth was open. She did not look as though she wanted rescuing.
Heat rolled through me, sudden and heavy. My cunny had been slick since morning—since a callused hand on my breast at the trot—and the ache was pounding in it now.
I set the book on the pillow where I could see it, pulled the chemise up my thighs, and slid my fingers down between them. To calm myself. To help me sleep, as any sensible woman would.
To sleep. Naturally.
I slid my fingers through my slick folds, circling my clitoris the way I’d learned brought me the quickest release. My other hand cupped my breast through the thin chemise, squeezing as I imagined Volkov’s rough palm there instead.
In my mind, I was bent over that saddle from the illustration—The Highwayman’s Toll—my skirts thrown up over my back, my arse exposed to the cool air.
Dmitri stood behind me, one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip as he drove into me in full view of his men.
His cock filled me completely, stretching me, owning me, and I was helpless to do anything but take it.
“You are mine now, little rabbit,” the imaginary Dmitri growled, pulling my hair until my back arched. “Your cunny belongs to me.”
My fingers moved faster, my breath coming in short gasps.
In my fantasy, his free hand came around to find my clitoris, rubbing it in rough circles as he fucked me from behind.
I could almost feel the thickness of him, the way my inner muscles would clench around his cock, the delicious stretch and burn—
The door-flap moved.
I froze, my hand still between my thighs, my chemise bunched around my waist.
Dmitri Volkov stepped into the tent.
His dark gaze swept over me—sprawled on his bed, legs spread, fingers glistening with my own arousal, the forbidden book open beside me—and a slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. He let the flap fall closed behind him with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.
“Starting without me, Duchess?”
Heat flooded my face as I snatched my hand away from my cunny as though burned. I tried to pull my chemise down, to cover myself, but the fabric was twisted around my hips.
“I was just—I didn’t expect—”
He made a tutting sound with his tongue as he reached for the hem of his shirt, his movements unhurried. “Don’t be shy now.”
He pulled the garment over his head in one smooth motion, and I forgot how to breathe.
I had felt the strength of him when I’d sat against his chest all day, but seeing him bare was another matter entirely.
His torso was all lean muscle and scars—a life written on skin in pale lines and puckered marks.
Dark hair covered his chest, trailing down past the waistband of loose trousers that hung low on his hips.
His feet were bare, and he moved across the layered rugs with the silent grace of a predator.
Like a wolf stalking prey.
He’d bathed. I could smell his soap, see the damp edges of his hair. He’d changed into fresh clothes and come to me as if this were a planned seduction rather than—
Rather than what? I was his captive.
But that word didn’t seem to fit how I felt when he sank down on the bed beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. His gaze dropped to the book, and he pulled it toward him, flipping through the pages with one hand while the other rested casually on his thigh.
That casual touch drew my attention downward, to where his cock pressed thick and hard against the fabric of his trousers. My cunny clenched, still throbbing from my interrupted pleasure.
“I like that you touch yourself for me,” he said, his accented French warm with approval. His lips quirked as he studied an illustration. “You were preparing yourself, da?”
“It was…to help me sleep,” I managed, my voice barely a whisper. “I do it for myself.”
To my surprise, his grin widened, something like genuine delight crossing his features. “Even better.”
He flipped the book around, showing me page seventy-nine. The Invasion of Brussels. The woman reclined with her legs spread, the man’s head buried between her thighs, his hands gripping her hips.
“You have an active imagination, krasivaya.” His voice had gone rougher, darker.
He dropped the book and planted his palm on the bed beside my hip, leaning over me. The heat of him, the sheer size of him this close, made my breath catch. His dark eyes held mine, commanding, allowing no argument.
“Show me.”
I should have refused. I should have been horrified, should have reminded him I was a duchess, should have maintained some shred of dignity.
Instead, mesmerized by that wolf-like stare, I let my hand drift back down between my thighs.
His gaze followed the movement, and he hummed deep in his chest—a sound of pure masculine appreciation that sent liquid heat flooding through me.
Emboldened, I let my legs fall wider apart. My fingers found my clitoris again, circling it the way I’d been doing before he interrupted. With my other hand, I squeezed my breast through the chemise, kneading the soft flesh.
“Good, krasivaya.” His voice was barely more than a growl. His hand dropped to the bulge in his trousers, palming himself through the fabric. “You are so wet already. Show me how you like to be touched.”
I shut my eyes, letting myself sink into the sensation. My fingers moved faster, my hips beginning to rock against my hand. I pinched my nipple through the thin fabric, just hard enough to make myself gasp.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Just like that. You are beautiful when you—”
Suddenly, his hands closed around my ankles.
My eyes flew open as he yanked me flat on my back, pulling me down the bed until my arse was at the edge of the mattress. Before I could process what was happening, he’d dropped to his knees on the rugs and buried his face between my thighs.
“Oh!” The sound tore from my throat, somewhere between a gasp and a moan.
No man had ever been so eager—
His beard scraped against my inner thighs, rough and foreign and absolutely wicked. Then his tongue—God in Heaven, his tongue!—dragged flat and slow through my folds, from entrance to clitoris, tasting me like I was the feast spread on his table earlier.
“Monsieur!” I couldn’t help the cry that escaped me.
He chuckled against my cunny, the vibration making me jerk. “Nyet, little rabbit. You will scream my name, just as I promised.”
His tongue circled my clitoris, then flicked over it in quick, devastating strokes. My back arched off the bed, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the furs. The sensation was overwhelming—the scratch of his beard, the wet heat of his mouth, the absolute confidence with which he devoured me.
This was nothing like my own fingers. Nothing like the fumbling attentions of past lovers who’d approached the act with distaste or obligation.
Dmitri Volkov ate my cunny like a starving man at a banquet.
His hands gripped my thighs, holding me open for him, spreading me wider when I tried instinctively to close my legs. One hand slid up to press my hips flat to the mattress, pinning me in place while his mouth worked its wicked magic.
Then I felt his fingers—thick, callused—circling my entrance. One slid inside me, and I gasped at the intrusion. My inner muscles clenched around it, desperate for more.
“So tight,” he murmured against my flesh, his breath hot. “And so very wet for me.”
He added a second finger, and I whimpered. He curved them inside me, pressing upward, searching for—
“Oh God!” My hips bucked violently as he found the rough spot behind my clitoris.
The spot I’d only recently discovered myself, the one no man had ever bothered to find. He’d been watching. He’d been paying attention to how I’d touched myself, learning what I liked.
He began to pump his fingers slowly, crooking them on each inward stroke to hit that devastating spot while his tongue returned to my clitoris. The dual sensation was too much—pleasure building from two directions at once, tightening low in my belly like a coiled spring.
“No, I—oh God, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His words were muffled against my cunny. “Come for me, Augusta. Come on my fingers and tongue like my krasivaya little duchess.”
The same praise he’d used when I’d submitted, when I’d spread my legs for him.
His fingers thrust harder, faster, hitting that spot with every stroke. His mouth closed around my clitoris and he sucked, his tongue flicking over the sensitive nub.
The spring snapped.
I came with a scream that surely carried across the entire camp, exactly as he’d vowed. “Dmitri!”
My cunny clamped down on his fingers, pulsing in waves of pleasure so intense I thought I might shatter. He didn’t stop—he worked me through it, his fingers gentling but never ceasing their movement, his tongue lapping at me as my body convulsed.
It went on and on, wave after wave of the most exquisite pleasure I’d ever experienced. Better than any orgasm I’d given myself, better than any man had ever given me.
When the last tremor finally faded, I lay boneless and panting on his bed, my limbs heavy, my mind floating somewhere above my body.
I felt him straighten, heard the rustle of fabric. Through half-lidded eyes, I watched him crawl up the bed toward me, his beard glistening with my spend. That wolfish grin was back, full of masculine pride.
“You see, little rabbit? I promised you would scream my name.”
I expected him to push me down, to pin me beneath him and take his pleasure the way he’d threatened all day. My body was still thrumming, still ready despite the powerful release, and part of me—the part that had stopped being sensible somewhere around Moscow—wanted it.