Page 42 of His Captive

The crack is narrow and I don’t need to look through it to know he’s in there, like a sixth sense I feel him. Nerves dance in my stomach and my heart beats a little faster as I open the door and step inside. Closing it behind me causes a noise that echoes all the way around the room, and disturbs Ethan enough for him to look up from the book he’s reading.

The room is huge, floor to ceiling high with bookshelves full of books, a Chesterfield chair and sofa positioned in its center.

Ethan looks more confused than angry, which comes as a relief, considering that by his standards I’ve probably way overstepped the mark.

“Come.” He lifts his hand and hooks his finger.

Just hearing his voice say the word causes my pussy to flutter for him.

I do as he commands, taking slow steps closer until I stand in front of him. His eyes study me intensely, and I notice the glass tumbler and half empty bottle of scotch that sits on the table beside him.

“I just wanted to say thank you... For the pills,” I explain, feeling I should offer him a reason for being here.

Ethan dips his head in acceptance.

“This room is pretty amazing.” I ignore his hostility and let my eyes wander around, fully aware that his aren’t shifting away from me.

“Come closer,” he tells me, and I edge toward him until our knees touch.

“I like this.” He flicks the bottom of my dress with his hand, sending a wave of cool air whooshing between my legs.

“It’s pretty.”

“I’d thank you, but you chose it,” I attempt cleverness, and he rewards me with a smirk as he brings his glass to his lips, taking a mouthful before places it back on the table.

Resting a hand on my hip, he drags me on to his lap. The front of my dress rises over my thighs, I feel him through his pants, hard, and pressing against my center.

“Tell me why you were working for Sorrento,” he rasps. His attention focusing on where his thumbs draw delicate circles on the inside of my thighs, an unexpected act of affection.

“I…” I look down to where he touches me. And as if he suddenly realizes what he’s doing. His thumb presses deep into my flesh, the pressure so tense I feel it bruising.

“I…I owe him money,” I tell him quickly, and his thumb immediately returns to its tender strokes.

“Drugs?” he asks looking unconvinced.

I shake my head. “My father,” I speak quietly, and Ethan’s eyes narrow like he expects more of an explanation.

“My father borrowed money from Sorrento when my mom got diagnosed with cancer. He couldn’t afford her medical bills and had already sold his business and home. It wasn’t enough, so he went to Sorrento,” I explain.

“Sorrento promised me that if I did the job without a hitch, the debt would be cleared.”

Ethan’s thumbs stop moving again, this time replacing them with his hands, each palm wrapping around my thighs and squeezing tight.

“What kind of a father lets his daughter repay his debts for him?” he asks roughly.

“A dead one,” I snap back. Ethan has no right to judge my father.

I notice a shock in his expression, even if he does manage to cover it up quickly.

“Is it worth a lot?” I ask him, trying to move the conversation on from me. I imagine the other guys who stole the butterfly from Ethan owed Sorrento money too. The thing must have been worth a ton, for him to be prepared to write off so much debt to get it.

Ethan takes his glass again and swallows the last of its contents.

“It’s invaluable,” he tells me coolly, placing the glass on the table and looking back up at me.

“Enough talking, you still sore?” he asks, his teeth grazing over his bottom lip and his eyes dropping between us.

“A little, not a lot,” I reply, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

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