Page 54 of His Captive

Stepping closer, his tall frame intimidates my tiny figure.

All I can do is shrug wordlessly.

“Do you think you’re pretty?” he asks me, taking a sip from his glass and placing it on his desk.

“Why’s that important?”

“It's important because I’m asking, now answer the question.” It feels like a trick question.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” Once again I turn his question on its head and wonder how long he will tolerate my tactic.

“I’m asking you.” He steps closer again, taking a strand of my hair between his fingers and flicking it like a coin.

“Tell me you’re pretty,” he says.

“I’m pretty,” I whisper the words through my lips, although they don’t mean anything. I don’t think I’m ugly, but I also don’t think I’m anything special. Pretty girls are on the cover of the magazines that get left on the tables at work. Pretty girls don’t make it to the age of twenty without ever being kissed. Pretty girls are popular and if they go missing, have their pretty faces spread all over the news.

“I don’t think you meant that,” he tells me doubtfully. His hand sliding from my shoulder and to my throat, though unlike the times before, he doesn’t grip. He rests there. His skin touching mine after what’s been too much time heating up my whole body. His eyes scorch through mine like he could steal the thoughts behind them.

“Say it again,” he orders.

“I’m pretty,” I speak a little louder.

“Better. Again…” he commands, closing eyes

“I’m pretty,” I repeat. My breath catching in my throat when he reaches behind me and unzips my dress, forcing it off my shoulders and landing it at my feet.

He takes a step back and admires the underwear I’ve chosen in the hope he might see.

Pure white lace complete with matching suspenders. I know he will like it…he chose it. Lunging forward, he lifts me off my feet and pushes me backward in one motion, my back slamming hard against his office wall.

“Again, say it again, Lysa.” There’s urgency to his tone, like he needs to hear the words.

“I’m pretty.”

Each time I say it seems to convince him a little more. His hand pushes roughly between our bodies and hooks the lace between my legs to the side.

I don’t realize that he’s taken out his cock until I feel it push inside me, causing me to scramble up the wall as he fills me. He wraps his fingers around my throat again, this time not so gently,

“Again,” he says.

He’s still inside me, and despite my desperation for friction, I don’t try to move. Ethan needs this, he needs control. His fully sheathed cock overpowering my body. Solid, still, and owning me from inside and out.

“Ethan...” I rest my arms on his shoulders, desperate for him to move inside me.

“Fuckin' say it.”

I can see he’s losing his temper. I should be afraid, and yet here I am, writhing and begging for more. His whole length inside me is not enough. Nothing will ever be enough when it comes to him.

“Lysa…” He speaks through his gritted teeth impatiently. I rub my hips against him in an attempt to provoke some movement from him. His free hand pressing into my hip bone and holding me firm, his thumbprint embedding in my skin as it pins me in to the wall behind me.

“I. AM. PRETTY.” I make sure I speak directly into his treacherous eyes and watch the anger evaporate from his face when he’s finally satisfied. His grip stays firm around my neck, but he releases my hip so his finger can move up and trace along my jaw. He’s a contradiction of himself, one of his hands so delicate, while his other holds me so brutally, but that sums Ethan Shaw up perfectly.

“Yes, Lysa, you fuckin’ are,” he whispers, his forehead pushing hard into mine. His lips close enough that I’m tempted to just take them.

“You’re my pretty little treasure, especially like this. When I’m inside you. Tell me you like me fucking you, Lysa?”

I nod my head because it’s true. I like him fucking me. I never want him to stop fucking me.

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