Page 22 of Captive Audience
A woman who was too much for a lot of men.
But I wasn’t too much for Rook. I couldn’t say exactly how I knew. I justknew. And something about that was very appealing.
So I obeyed, slowly. Deliberately. My thighs parted, baring me to him in a way that felt as dangerous as it did intoxicating.
His eyes dropped to the slick heat between my thighs and stayed there. Dark. Focused. Ravenous. “Christ. Laid out for me like that…you’re breathtaking.” He didn’t touch me at first. He just stared, as if he were memorizing me.
My ego might’ve been fragile before I’d approached Rook’s table tonight, but having this godlike man looking ready to devour me made me feel all kinds of special.
Rook’s hands found my ankles first, then slid up my calves, my thighs, with firm, possessive strokes that had me arching into him before I could stop myself.
“I haven’t even touched this sweet cunt yet, and you’re already trembling,” he said, almost to himself. “So fucking perfect.”
He sank to his knees at the end of the bed. His palms went under my ass, tugging me closer to the edge until I was spread wide for him, open and helpless and far too eager.
Sending this moment straight to the core memory bank.
His eyes met mine. “You really want this? With me?”
I was all for a consent king, but I’d never once given Rook the impression that I didn’t want him. My brow knitted as I considered how much I should share. “Truth?”
“Always.”
“I can unequivocally say that I’ve never wanted a man as much as I want you right now.”
“Those are the right words, love.” I almost combusted when he licked his lips and returned his stare to my exposed flesh. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”
“Half an hour? You have the patience of an overtired toddler.”
His chuckle had a devious note to it. “Trust me. When it comes to you, I have the patience of a saint.”
Then his mouth was on me. Hot, slow, devastating. One long lick up my center, ending with a flick of his tongue against my clit that made my back bow and my fingers scramble for purchase in the sheets.
“Hands on me,” he commanded, voice rough against my sensitive skin. “Grab my hair. Scratch my back. I want to feel how much you need me.”
I threaded my fingers through his hair, tugging hard as he sucked and circled over and over. I cried out, and my hips lifted.
Rook’s grip on my thighs tightened. “Don’t run. Take it.”
“Fuck,” I gasped. “Rook, God?—”
He growled like he wanted more from me. My nails scraped down his shoulders, and he moaned.
“That’s right,” he murmured. “Mark me. I want to see those scratches tomorrow.”
His mouth worked me slowly, methodically, but never with quite the pressure I needed to push me over the edge.
I arched my spine to chase his mouth, but he held me down with one firm hand.
“Rook,” I panted, frustration blooming.
He glanced up at me with glistening lips. “Not yet. You don’t come until I say.”
“That’s cruel.”
“Aye,” he said, dragging his tongue in a slow circle that made my legs shake. “But I want to hear you beg loud enough to wake half the city.”
I whimpered as my hands fisted his hair. I didn’t care how desperate I sounded. My release was so close I could taste it, and Rook was holding it just out of reach. “Please.”
