The Villain’s Captive by Bella J.

12

Perspiration beaded allalong her hairline, the vein in her neck throbbing impossibly fast. Her warm breath caressed my skin, and I wanted to feel more of it. I wanted her rapid breaths to kiss my neck while I fucked her, hear her gentle moans as I rocked her body toward a release, and watch her come apart beneath me.

“You’re going to do something for me.”

Her eyes glanced back at me in question.

I slipped my hand from between her legs and placed my finger on her mouth as I hungrily stared down while I coated her bottom lip with her glistening arousal. “Ask me.”

Her lips parted.

“Ask me what you’re going to do for me.”

She swallowed, her throat bobbing. There was a war raging inside her. It was there, in the way she looked at me with equal parts hate and desire. Even for her it was undeniable, this fucking connection we shared long before she laid eyes on me.

She cleared her throat, brushing a curl from her face. “What am I going to do for you?”

I shot her a smug grin. “So glad you asked.” I stepped back and strolled to the closet without taking my eyes off her while she kept still with her back against the wall. Either she was too scared to move, or too intrigued to look away.

Her eyes widened when I revealed the cello—and I wondered whether it was surprise or excitement that swirled in her eyes when she gazed at the instrument.

“You are going to play for me.”

Her gaze snapped up to mine. “You know I can’t.”

“You can. And you will.”

“Elijah—”

“Sit.”

She frowned, snapping her mouth shut in a clear display of defiance.

I moved the navy-blue velvet ottoman with my foot and gestured toward it. “Sit down.”

“I can’t—”

“Sit the fuck down, Charlotte.”

Her chest rose as she took a deep breath, her eyes uncertain as she stepped closer, one hesitant step at a time. It took every ounce of my self-control not to grab her, kiss her, consume her. The nightgown she wore fanned around her legs, the white silk accentuating her innocence and classic beauty. To me, Charlotte was the personification of classical music—an entire fucking orchestra on her own, able to make me feel things a man like me never should.

As she settled on the ottoman, I held out the cello, and she took it from me with an unsteady hand, staring at it as if she feared it. Like she feared whatever was about to happen next.

I pulled a scarf from one of the drawers, lacing it through my fingers while she watched me intently, too afraid to look away.

“Just do exactly as I say. Understand?”

“I can’t—”

“Understand?” I raised my voice. Demanding.

She nodded in submission, but her eyes burned with an inner fight that tempted the fuck out of me. My life consisted of power, dominance, breaking people’s souls. And with her, the thought of taking her fight, her strength, and owning it made my blood hum with excitement.

I placed the scarf over her eyes, tying it at the back before dragging my fingers down her curls. Soft, smooth, a fucking vision clutched in my fist.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m giving you what you need to play for me.” I dragged my thumb along the arch of her top lip. “Darkness.”

Guiding her hand, I let her take the bow, and then I moved in behind her, snaking my arm around her waist, pulling her close—her back against my chest. I leaned in over her shoulder and placed a hand on each of her thighs, winding the fabric up with my fingers until my palm met the warmth of her flesh—skin on skin. “Some of us need the darkness to flourish. The freedom that comes with the night allows us to be who we truly are, away from society’s judgmental glares. Now,” I brought my lips to her ear, “play for me.”

She trembled, and I felt every shiver that wracked through her, radiating toward mine. All I wanted to do was drink her in, her scent, her body, the way it felt against mine. The softness of her long curls, the sight of her flawless skin—ivory fused with the simplicity of seduction. A lethal blend for a man like me. A man with a great appreciation for the classic and timeless pieces that brought light to a life that had only known the harsh reality of a never-ending eclipse.

I wanted to relish it all while she stilled the chaos in my soul with the beautiful music I knew she had within her.

“Now, imagine you’re at the Alto,” I whispered against her ear. “There’s no one there…but me. Only me.” My hand eased up her thigh, her skin warm and my touch hot. “Focus on the music in you. Let it out. Set it free.”

Her body straightened, her posture firm and feet flat on the ground as she lifted the bow, her other hand touching the neck of the cello which rested against her heart. Even with an assumed threat like myself, sitting behind her, holding her captive in more ways than one—she still felt the music. She hadn’t even played a single note, and already my soul was quiet, at peace.

I closed my eyes, waiting, foreknowing the bliss of the escape her music gifted me—the sound of her pursuit of perfection.

The moment her bow touched the strings, that first note awakening a need for more, I closed my eyes and allowed the silky, eloquent tenor to possess me. Nothing thawed the ice in my veins as the instrument’s warm, sensuous tone that inspired so many great performers and composers.

“Hmmm,” I moaned in appreciation. “Camille Saint-Saëns’, The Swan.” A beautiful composition she had perfected with a talent that rivaled all others.

“Why music?” She kept the rhythm low, slow, and gentle.

I opened my eyes, her head leaning in the direction of where her fingers glided up and down the cello’s neck. “Because nothing has the power to manipulate emotions the way music does,” I whispered as not to hinder the music that filled the room, wall to wall, and floor-to-ceiling. “Music can make you feel whatever it wants you to. It can fuel happiness just as much as it can intensify a heartbreak.”

“Why classical music? Orchestra?”

I smiled. “Who needs words when you have music?”

She started to sway, compelled to dance with the instrument. “Have we ever met, spoken before?”

“Shhh,” I slipped my palm down toward the inside of her thigh, her skin like velvet against mine. “Play.”

“Please,” she begged me with a whisper, and I licked my lips.

“The night at the Alto when I left you the cello was the first and only means of contact I made with you.”

“Why then?’

“I was foolish.” A simple answer to such a complicated question. I didn’t know why, I just felt compelled to do it. To give her the kind of masterpiece instrument her talent deserved to play.

I shifted closer, our bodies flush against one another as I allowed my touch to travel up her thigh.

“How many times have you watched me play?”

“Not nearly enough.” My fingers touched her panties, and I felt her suck in a breath. “Whatever you do, do not stop playing.”

“How can I play when you’re—”

“Focus on the music, the sound,” I traced a finger along her slit through her panties, “Let your emotions carry you.”

It took a mere flick of my wrist to tear through the thin fabric of the hindrance that kept me from exploring her body in ways which my sins demanded. My finger brushed against her clit, and she whimpered, a sound that shot down my spine, crashing against the tip of my dick.

“Do you know how many nights I watched you play your cello? Witnessing how your body moves as the music carries you, the way your face shows every sound, every vibrato penetrating your soul?”

“Elijah, what are you doing?”

“The music, Charlotte. Don’t stop playing.”

I slipped my hand deeper between her thighs, her arousal coating my fingers. Fuck, I wanted to taste her. I wanted to bury my fucking face between her legs, lap and lick her cunt until she came on my tongue. Not yet.

“Elijah,” she whimpered, and the pitch of the cello slipped as she lost her focus.

“Concentrate,” I scolded, gripping her tighter against me.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I murmured against the skin of her neck, allowing my lips to caress the sensitive flesh as I got high on her scent. “Should I not do this?” I grazed my thumb against the tiny bundle of nerves, and she stiffened against me, her arousal soaking my palm.

I leaned my head to the side so I could watch her beautiful face, her cheeks a sensual pink against the black scarf. “Or how about this?” I found her entrance and slid a single finger inside her. The most beautiful whimper left her lips, and she lost control of the bow, its snares causing high harmonics to scratch and cut the tempo of what was a perfect composition so far.

“Start again.”

“I can’t. Not with you touching me.” Her voice was a mere whisper, and she rolled her head back, settling it on my shoulder, her raven hair brushing against my cheek. It smelled of orange blossom and coconut. Fresh, delicious…erotic.

I eased my finger out of her wet cunt and slipped it back in. This time harder, deeper. “I said. Start. Again.”

“Jesus,” she breathed, and her bow touched the strings, starting the piece from the beginning.

The music, her talent, her scent, her fucking arousal that pooled between her legs had my cock aching to find release inside her slick cunt. I wanted to feel her pussy wrap around me—stretching, throbbing, aching to come. My hips rocked behind her as I searched for friction to alleviate some of the pressure of my throbbing dick, my finger spreading her wetness to her clit—circling, teasing. Her legs trembled and thighs clenched, but this time she kept the music flowing without a hitch, without losing her focus. I massaged that tight bundle of nerves harder, faster with this cruel need to mindfuck her—tear her in two as I forced her to play that fucking cello while I played with her body.

“Elijah,” she started, “please…”

“Please what?” I glanced at her parted lips, plump and pretty, begging to be kissed. “Tell me what you want.”

Her hips rocked, demanding to be filled as I traced back to her entrance, allowing my fingertip to linger, my senses utterly consumed by her, hyperaware of her every breath and subtlest movement. “If you want to come, all you have to do is ask.”

She snapped her lips shut, leaning her head more to the side, eyes closed—a beautiful display of defiance. A silent refusal to speak.

God, I loved this game.

“Your body is on the verge of snapping in half…isn’t it? Your warm cunt is throbbing. It’s aching for a release. I can give it to you. You just have to ask me.”

A moan vibrated against her closed lips, her mind still fighting against her body’s need to submit to the man who played the part of the monster.

I eased my finger into her completely, the smell of sex and arousal wrapping around us, pushing us closer to the edge with every breath. “If you don’t ask me, I swear to Christ I won’t let you come.”

Finally, her lips parted, and I waited for her to say the words, to submit and hand me the victory. Because God knew, I loved the hunt. I loved the game. I thrived on it. It was like looking at my next victim through the scope of my M2010—waiting, breathing, relishing the power of deciding which moment would be their last.

Charlotte groaned, but her lips snapped shut, once again defying me, robbing me of the satisfaction of breaking her. Owning her.

God, I wanted to bend her over, fuck her until she screamed, taking her to the edge with my cock over and over again without allowing her to tip over. Torture her with the absence of a release until she fucking wept.

If she were any other woman, I’d do exactly that. But she wasn’t. She was the one person I couldn’t hurt—at least, not without permission.

“You think you’ve won,” I bit out between clenched teeth. “You haven’t.” I pulled my finger from her wet cunt, surprised when she grabbed my hand, wrapping her fingers around my wrists and keeping it there.

Both of us stilled, the silence deafening with the sudden absence of the cello’s sound. My heart raced, and her chest heaved, the air between us buzzing with a wicked desire that had the potential to either crumble or explode.

Without saying a word, she guided my hand, silently searching for the feel of my fingers against her sensitive folds.

The bastard in me wanted to deny her, pull my hand back and walk away. But I couldn’t. So, I watched her from the side without fucking blinking, my cock painfully hard, twitching as her heat wrapped around my finger once more.

There were no words, just feelings. Emotions. Like when she played the cello. Words weren’t needed to know what she felt. It was inconsequential. Unnecessary noise in a world like ours, a world where music sang to our blood and spoke more truths than any words ever could.

I just prayed she’d be strong enough to survive what lay ahead, and that I would be able to protect her.