CAPTURED: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys(161)

My waist height was almost perfect for a lowered mouth to latch onto the front part of my sex.

And that was when I felt the strangest, wettest, alluring, disgusting thing of my life.

His tongue slid along my clit, wriggling softly, drenching me in saliva.

My stomach clenched, my hands balled, and I wobbled in his arms.

The disgusting element didn't leave. I waited for my body to betray me,  to like it, but all I felt was grotesque impatience for it to be over.

And then … it was.

My first experience with a tongue down below, and it'd been done by a  man older than my father. If I didn't have an empty stomach, I would've  thrown up all over again. There was nothing sexy or erotic about that.

Tapping my behind, he murmured, "Proceed."

Swallowing hard, I collected the dessert tray and crossed the small  distance to Orange Tattoo. He crooked his finger, beckoning me closer.  Locking my jaw, I held the desserts high and did as he requested. His  orange hair tickled my thighs as he leaned down, running his tongue over  the private bundle of nerves.

Luckily for me, I wasn't sensitive, nor did I enjoy it.

Once he'd taken his trifle and tasted his fill, I left to serve the next.

And the next.

And the next.

Some men forced my legs to spread, angling their faces deep. Some men  barely touched me, their hot breath wafting between my thighs.

I would like to say I managed to turn my brain off-to do what I promised  and fly free, but every tongue kept me locked in the world I lived in.  Every lick made my body turn to stone while my tummy twisted and ached  from clenching.

I delivered dessert, but I was the ultimate sweet. The men took their  time, firm fingers holding my hips, dragging their foul tongues from my  clit to my entrance. And after every violation, they'd wipe their  glistening mouths and say, "Thank you, Ms. Weaver."

Thank you.

As if their appreciation was enough to stop me from feeling like dirt.  Their treatment never changed. They remained courteous and gentle.  Obeying boundaries and not doing anything but licking me in a place they  had no right.

Their pleasantness made all of this seem so normal. So terribly normal.  And my hatred slowly switched back to acceptance. The small flutter I'd  felt from my nipples being sucked returned-frightful, tentative, but  softening my hate tongue by tongue.

They weren't hurting me. They weren't making me do anything that had the potential to shatter my mind.

They just tasted.

A little taste.

That's all.

And I didn't fight.

Not at all.

I'm wet.

By the time I came to Daniel, my legs were drenched and the trimmed hair  I meticulously maintained was mattered with droplets of Diamond  brotherhood.

My hands were balled around the tray; my jaw tight and aching. Because  no matter my good intentions-they'd won. They'd caused my body to have a  reaction, and I was soaking.

The strange ache that Jethro had conjured was back, pulsing deep in my  core. The flicker of tongues and gentle tastes frustrated me and I  hated, positively hated, that I had to fight my hips from pressing  harder against them.

I'd begun the service uptight but now I was wound tight. Seeking something. Seeking relief.

Daniel pushed his chair back, angling me physically between his spread  hips. With a malicious glint in his eyes, he pushed me back with a firm  palm between my breasts. "Fuck the stupid rule."

I gasped as his mouth latched around my clit. The suction of his mouth  made my body twist with oversensitivity. He wasn't playful or respectful  like the rest of the men. He knew what he wanted and he took.

Hard.

The ache wound tighter and tighter, clawing its way toward relief.

I squeezed my eyes. I couldn't look at the men watching. I couldn't do  anything but breathe and get through it. And I definitely couldn't look  up where a small growl came, masked with silence.

It was nothing more than a growl.

But it resonated in my bones with knowledge.

Jethro.

The few seconds that each man had taken seemed much longer in Daniel's arms. Suddenly, I cried out, jerking hard.

The tip of his tongue probed my entrance, trying to enter me.

No one had done that. They'd behaved with some unspoken rule to taste but not devour.

Fuck the stupid rule.

Daniel's voice repeated in my head. Had there been guidelines on how I was to be treated?

Everything we're doing is following a strict set of rules-laid out in utmost simplicity and must be followed.

I recalled what Mr. Hawk had said.

He had rules meant to ruin me but also … protect me?

Daniel tried again, his fingers biting into me painfully.

Then, I was wrenched away.

Torn free of his grip with a slice of his fingernails and dragged to the  end of the table. The empty dessert tray went flying, clanging against  the floor.

My legs tripped, sending me colliding with a body I'd been so intimate with only hours before.

The crash of the tray cut through the room like a loud cymbal. But no one said a word.

The moment Jethro dragged me to the head of the table opposite Mr. Hawk,  he shoved the largest of all parchments into my hands. His eyes were  dark, face tight. "Here, read it."

Breathing fast, trying hard to forget about the sticky saliva between my  legs and the sensation of having his brother's tongue trying to enter  me, I took the tattered age-stained scroll.

Jethro scowled, keeping a small distance between us. His coldness  buffeted me, sending ice scattering over my bare arms. He looked pissed  off-furious, yet there was something there that made my stomach twist.

Whatever game we'd played, whatever war we'd started back at the  stables, wasn't finished. He knew it. I knew it. And the knowledge sent  power thrilling through my veins.

Leaning close, he hissed, "Stop staring at me, Ms. Weaver. I gave you a  request." Tapping the scroll in my palm, he snapped, "Read. It."

Tearing my eyes from his, I obeyed.

The intricate border caught my attention first. Along with a design of  vines and filigree, the words bound, indebted, owned were entwined in  red ink.

The calligraphy of ancestors past sentenced me to a life worse than  death. My rights had been taken. My life stolen. My body no longer mine.         

     



 

18th August 1472

Signed and witness by Esq John Law

Matter between Weaver versus Hawk

Known forthwith as the Debt Inheritance

This hereby concludes all debate and conversation and puts forth a  binding debt. Council has been provided along with sovereign approval  for such an agreement.

As set in this chamber, I have witnessed the signatures of both parties  of House Weaver and House Hawk, along with their significant entourage  and companions.

The debt states as follows.

Percy Weaver hereby solemnly swears to present his firstborn girl-child,  Sonya Weaver, to the firstborn son of Bennett Hawk, known as William  Hawk. This will nullify all unrest and unpleasantries until such a time  as a new generation comes to pass.

This debt will not only bind the current occupancies of the year of our  Lord 1472 but every year thereafter. Every firstborn Weaver girl will be  gifted as fair comeuppance to the firstborn Hawk boy to be claimed  between the years of one and eight and six and twenty respectively. Both  parties will be forever agreed on this day set forth.

The life and all attributes will be determined by the current Hawk, no  rules or precedence will be set, and this agreement raises them above  the law, operating within the grace of her Majesty the Queen of England.

Signed:





I KNEW WHEN she'd read it.

I knew when the final sentence sank in.

We had a document signed, sealed, and delivered by the royal magistrate  of England giving us carte blanche to do as we liked. There was nothing  illegal about my actions. There was nothing anyone could find me guilty  of. No judicial system would save her.

It was the ultimate approval.

Not to mention, we had wealth to ensure no one would contest it. There  was nothing to fight against. The sooner she accepted that, the easier  this would be.

Nila's eyes bugged wide, looking up from the parchment. Grabbing her  shoulders, I backed her against the table. The horror living in her dark  brown gaze was enough to drag a tiny bit of humanness from my cold  soul.

Watching her being tasted-I wouldn't deny-it fucked me off. She was my plaything. Mine to torment.

I was pissed at my father for permitting the entire brotherhood to use  her. They weren't deserving of drinking someone's misery. That right was  a Hawk's and only a fucking Hawk's. Excluding my younger cock of a  brother.

He deserved shit.

Grinding my teeth, I placed my palm against her sternum, pressing her  breakable chest. Her heart beat like a war drum beneath my fingers.

Her lips parted, but she didn't fight as I pushed her backward.

I didn't say a word-controlling her by sheer anger and will.

Her defined stomach muscles clenched as she fought the pressure, then  gave in, sprawling backward onto the table. A small sound of pain came  from her lips, catching her weight on her elbows.

She refused to lie down.

She would.

My cock fucking bruised itself, punching my belt time and time again.  Only I knew how she tasted when she wanted to be tasted. Only I knew how  she sounded when she wanted it so fucking bad. And only I knew how  tight she was.