His Captive: A Revenge Marriage Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  My balls feel like they’re gonna drop off, they hurt so bad.

  “What the fuck do you think?” I snarl. “This is my place, I own this fucking cabin!”

  “But this is my room!” she cries before shutting her mouth. Right, she’s a prisoner, not a guest, and suddenly Anna remembers. Clutching the sheet close to her chest, she instead speaks in a low, trembling voice.

  “Please leave,” she murmurs, looking away. “Just give me two minutes to get ready.”

  My dick rages at that voice, becoming pure iron. Anna could work as a phone sex operator, the low hush and warm purr sending tingles through my spine. What the fuck is wrong with me? I banish the thought quickly and focus on the matter at hand.

  “There’s a bathroom down the hall,” I snarl. “Get dressed and then come downstairs when you’re decent. And don’t try to escape, there’s nowhere to go.”

  She nods wordlessly because the truth is obvious. We’re in bumfuck nowhere, I don’t even have to lock her room door. She couldn’t survive in the woods, not even for a day, much less overnight. So I stalk back downstairs, hearing the rustle of the sheets as the girl gets out of bed.

  And in the living room, my feet pace relentlessly, covering the length of the living room a million times. How is it possible that this woman is so physically perfect? Why the hell does she have the body of Jessica Rabbit, complete with king-sized breasts and a delicious rear-end? Why the hell am I so fucking addicted? It’s a crap joke.

  Light footfalls alert me that someone is on the staircase, and when my eyes travel in that direction, Anna makes an appearance on the steps. Her moves are elegant and full of grace.

  Wearing the same clothes from yesterday, most women would look stale and worn. But the redhead has never looked more beautiful. Even without makeup, her skin is pure and creamy, that flaming red hair like waves down her back. Shit, I’d love to feel it wrapped around my dick, tight and smooth as she sucks me dry, draining my balls.

  But shit, these thoughts are so fucking wrong, so absolutely wrong, and yet I can’t stop. Because the rest of her body is fucking delicious too. Those huge breasts sit high in the V-neck of the sweater, fat sacks of cream making my eyes pop. Her waist is tiny before curving into wide, womanly hips, and oh fuck, but they’re perfect anchors for when I fuck her senseless. Yeah, I can see it now. The girl moaning face down into the sheet as I do the double-drill from the back, grabbing that ass as her back hole is trashed.

  Aww, shit. For fuck’s sake.

  Anna’s just my type. It’s like she was created for me, everything about her perfect. She’s soft and full in all the right places, different in this world full of razor thin blonde Barbies. Those are the women who usually battle for my attention. But little do they know that I want heft, I want real poundage, stick thin scarecrows are fucking disgusting.

  And even though my expression is furious, the redhead manages to look calm and dignified. She takes a seat on the couch, folding her hands in her lap. Suddenly her shoes are much more interesting than my face as she averts her gaze. Is it my boner? Oh yeah, this woody is fucking huge and I’m not bothering to hide it. There are some benefits to being the boss.

  My words come out as a growl.

  “I’m putting you to work.”

  Unflinching, she lifts her eyes to focus on the overflowing bookshelf in the corner. Still, she says nothing.

  “Since you wanted to marry my brother as a part of your get rich quick scheme, you’ll get a glimpse of the real world today. Now you’re going to find out what it’s like to work for a living.”

  With her chin held high, she finally opens her mouth to speak.

  “Trust me, I understand the value of a dollar all too well. Work has been a constant for me since of the age of fifteen so you don’t have anything to worry about. I’ve labored hard to support myself and my sister since our parents died years ago.”

  What is up with this fictional sister? Shit, is she really still pushing the goddamn lie? Snarling angrily, my words burst out.

  “Stop with the sister shit already! There’s no other curvy redhead out there with the name Anna. Cut the lies okay? It’s fucking retarded.”

  That shuts her up. Beautiful brown eyes land on the fireplace, once again denying me the luxury of looking into those caramel pools. Her chin is trembling slightly as she sits stiffly on the cushion, spine unbelievably straight.

  With a snarl, I grab a broom from the closet near the stairs. Pivoting on my heel, my boots retrace my steps until I’m towering over her. But when I thrust the broom at her she takes it with a without any hesitation.

  Shit, that was unexpected. Most of the girls I know don’t cook and clean, they don’t know balls about housework. But Anna looks comfortable with the broom, like she’s willing to put it to use.

  “You need to get this place spic and span, from top to bottom.”

  She holds the broom loosely at her side then says, “Not a problem.”

  That sultry voice of hers is going to be my undoing. Mark my words. It is isn’t fair the way she makes the simplest words sound erotic. I bet she’d sound even better, moaning and trapped under my weight as her pussy absorbs powerful thrusts from my engorged cock.

  “Will there be anything else?” she asks breaking me out of my trance. Shit, my dick is going to fall off if I don’t get some relief soon.

  “Start with the kitchen,” I say shortly. “Clean up the mess from last night’s dinner.”

  Nodding, Anna walks into the kitchen to start working. Those hips sway seductively and her ass cheeks take turns rising and falling with the rhythm of her steps. If I hadn’t witnessed her walking down the street yesterday, I would swear she’d added a little oomph just to get under my skin this morning. But it’s just her natural stride.

  And as she reaches the kitchen, I warn her again.

  “In case you’re wondering, there’s no way to escape, sweetheart. This is the only cabin in this part of the woods so there are no neighbors, no nothing. And don’t think about trying to make it out by foot. The nearest highway exit is more than sixty miles away so tough luck.”

  Watching Anna, I witness an unreadable expression cross her face at my threat. But she doesn’t say anything in return, instead quietly propping the broom against the counter before rolling up her sleeves.

  And then she gets down to business. Like Cinderella, the redhead makes quick work of gathering all the pots and dishes that need to be cleaned. She carries them over to the sink before turning on the water and grabbing a sponge.

  Frankly, the female surprises me with her quiet efficiency. Unafraid of adding a little elbow grease, she scrubs the residue from last night’s meal like a pro. Afterwards, the dishes are dried until they’re sparkling and put away into the cupboards.

  The peaceful expression on her face while she’s wiping down the counter startles me. It’s as if she’s enjoying herself. Meticulously, the redhead puts everything back in its place and hangs up the wet towels to dry when she’s done.

  Moving right along, my prisoner retrieves the broom. Oh fuck. Because the female bends over again and again, sweeping at various corners, and my cock swells greedily at the sight. Her rump is so huge, heart-shaped and jiggly, and I desperately want to plunge inside. I wanna feel that sweet slit clench around me, harboring my dick deep. And then I want to pull out and press myself into her asshole, feeling her rectum clamp on my veiny length. Yeah, I’m a dirty fuck, I own both a woman’s holes, there’s nothing off-limits.

  And yet the little girl has no idea. Not once has she made a face or complained that it wasn’t even her who created the mess. Anna just works diligently to restore order to the place. If she knew my thoughts, she’d probably scream and bolt, taking her chances outside. Because the monster is right here, in the same room, but she has no idea.

  And goddamn, but my dick just gets bigger and stiffer as she toils. The redheaded bitch certainly isn’t spoiled at all, no uppity princess here. In fact, I think the tra
itorous Jezebel rather enjoys it, if that content look on her face is any indication. Who the hell can manage to look this serene and beautiful doing manual labor?

  But the whole time she ignores me like I’m invisible, moving around me with ease, that sweet body swaying. She’s the picture of calm, cool and collected, whereas I’m a fucking maniac.

  I hate it.

  I fucking hate how she’s done this.

  I fucking hate how she’s turned the tables, making me into the prisoner.

  Angrily, I turn on my heel and storm into my study down the hall. It’s about time that I start writing. That was the original purpose of this trip in the first place. I’m a best-selling author, pounding out my latest novel, and there are words to be written. There’s real work to be done, real money on the line, and I’ve lost a shit-ton of time ogling my pretty prisoner.

  With my notes spread out before me, I scan the messy scrawl, trying to figure out what to do first. A pencil hangs loosely from my fingers, tapping rhythmically against the edge of the desk.

  And luckily, writing does what it always does. It’s my nirvana, the place where I get lost, and immersed in a new world waiting to be brought to life, thoughts of anything but words begin to fade. My fingers fly furiously over the keyboard, new characters coming to life. Time passes in a blur as I bury myself in my latest novel, weaving a tale from scratch.

  My body relaxes gradually until I’m hunched over my laptop, eyes intent. I’m thriving in my natural habitat and it feels fucking good to be in control of something for a change.

  Because writing is my lifeline. The man I am today wouldn’t exist without books. Even as a kid, reading and writing had been my preferred outlet. My father got me to play the typical team sports but I’d go straight home from practices and get lost in a new book. Weekly visits to the bookstore and library became the norm for me and my mom. It’s how we bonded while my dad was busy running his corporation.

  And because of my love of reading, the writing bug naturally followed. I finished my first short story when I was ten and never stopped writing from that point on. I did it in high school, throughout college, and after I published my first story, that was it. I never got a corporate job, writing is my life.

  It’s the thing I do best.

  Despite my father’s best efforts, I refused to join the family business. He’d been livid, threatening to revoke my trust fund and all other shit. But in the end, I was dead serious about my decision. Even if it was pure bullshit to papa dear, you gotta respect a man with so much determination.

  And twenty years later, I’ve published over ten bestsellers under a world-famous penname: Robert James. If only Dad saw half of what’s happened, he’d eat his words.

  Because creating my own name had been important for me. Being raised a Morgan thrust me into the spotlight for all the wrong reasons. Everyone knows the Morgans. Everyone knows that we own half of New York City, the result of some lucky buys in the early eighties. So yeah, there’s the Morgan Bank Building, the Morgan Library, and countless Morgan Towers. About a quarter of the city’s rentals belong to the family trust, and money pours in like a waterfall, my bank account a fucking monster.

  But I didn’t want the family name. I wanted to strike out on my own and create a brand for myself. Whether I sold a million books or just one, it was vital to do it without the Morgan name attached. So Robert James was born and the rest is history.

  Because yeah, there’s so much fucking money it’s unbelievable. I swear, this shit sprouts from my ears, I could go swimming in dollar bills. But money attracts cash-starved women, hungry to get their dirty paws on my wallet, desperate for a taste of the good life. So yeah, I’m wary. I’ve seen the chicks, I’ve seen how they go soft and liquid, offering their bodies for a ring. I know first-hand how easy it is to fall for their charms when they’ve got nothing but dollars signs on the brain.

  But that’s in the past, there are safeguards to make sure some dumb chick doesn’t steal our shit. So turning back to my work, I began hammering away again. Writing is my respite. It’s what keeps me sane, forcing me to put one foot in front of another, again and again. If I didn’t write, I’d probably go fucking nuts, an inmate in an insane asylum.

  And after a couple hours, I look up blearily. Shit, is it lunch time already? As if on cue, the aroma of grilled chicken creeps under the door inviting me to find the source, and my stomach growls. Fuck, I’m starving.

  The aroma grows stronger, mouthwatering and delicious.

  What the fuck? Is Anna cooking or am I just hallucinating because I’m so fucking hungry?

  Bolting out of the room, my big frame is in the kitchen in seconds.

  Sure enough, there’s Anna with an apron wrapped around her tiny waist, looking sexy as hell, the frilly hem trailing at her knees. A grill pan is situated over two of the burners as she puts the finishing touches on the amazing smelling chicken.

  My mouth waters, both from the smell and the sight of her standing there looking both domestic and tantalizing in that damn apron. She can pull off any look. I’ve witnessed her tired and worn last night, naked and startled this morning and now this.

  She’s my type. No ifs, ands, and buts about it. Damn straight.

  Oblivious to my ogling, Anna looks up at me.

  “Hi there,” she murmurs. “You must be hungry. You’ve been holed up in that room for almost five hours straight.”

  But I’m not one for niceties.

  “What the fuck? I didn’t ask you to cook,” comes my pissed growl. The sentence is out of my mouth before I can stop it. My anger is clearly misplaced but I don’t care. “You only do as you’re told around here, got it?”

  But Anna doesn’t get flustered. A calm smile on her face, she picks up some tongs and places two large pieces of chicken on a plate. Next, she walks over to the fridge and retrieves a large bowl. Working silently, she puts some salad on the plate to round out the meal.

  Calmly, she places the finished product on the table without much fanfare and turns to me. “Lunch is served.”

  Patiently, she waits for me to take my seat.

  The pains in my stomach are hard to ignore. I don’t want to give in but the food looks so fucking good and I could use the calories. So with a deep growl, I throw myself into a chair, diving into the steaming food.

  And shit, it’s delicious, just like I thought. The juicy chicken is seasoned well and grilled to perfection. And the salad is the perfect touch. Who knew a gold digger like Anna could throw down in the kitchen? Women like her aren’t supposed to be great cooks.

  But then again, the redhead has done nothing but show me that my preconceived notions about her are incorrect. Since she arrived, it’s one puzzle after the other and I can’t keep up. What the hell is going on? My eyes trail her as she moves around the kitchen, tidying up.

  Even in an apron, she’s fucking sexy. The cloth does nothing to mask her gorgeous figure because those curves are simply impossible to hide. In fact, they’re highlighted from the way the material is tied tightly around her waist. Every enticing dip and valley on her form is emphasized, making my mouth water.

  Sucking down an ice cold beer, relief floods me as the cool liquid coats my throat. The food isn’t dry but my dangerous thoughts about this woman caused all the moisture in my mouth to evaporate.

  But shit, this is so wrong. The direction of my thoughts disgust me so I finish my meal as quickly as possible before stomping back into my study without another word.

  However, the same problem that plagued me last night now returns with a vengeance. I can’t focus on my book no matter how hard I fucking try. Fingers poised over the keyboard, my mind travels back to the woman in the kitchen and just how much I want her.

  I should be ashamed of myself for these nasty thoughts. Her tits pressed in my face. Her cunt on my lips, tasting that delicious wetness. That pretty pink pout curved around my dick. Yet, they won’t stop rushing in, taking over my brain. Snapping out of it, my fist bang
s against the surface of the desk.

  This isn’t right. In fact, this is dead ass wrong.

  Not only is she a gold digger, but she’s a slut who tempted my brother with the same body I’m fantasizing about right now. I need to break this lusty trance with a fucking ice pick.

  Anna is a whore and cannot be trusted under absolutely any circumstances. She’s a ho and I’m not allowed to crave her no matter how much my dick twitches and strains against my pants.

  This isn’t about anything but revenge. She’s going to pay for trying to fuck her way into my family. And she damn well deserves everything that’s coming her way.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Anna

  I wonder what he’s up to.

  Ever since his disappearing act after lunch, Robert hasn’t shown his face once. He hasn’t come out to get a drink of water or even go to the bathroom. What has he been doing all day? Not a single peep has come from the room he uses as his hiding place. Even though it’s none of my business what he’s doing, I can’t help but be curious.

  His mystery is a part of what makes him so intriguing. In our short time together I’ve learned that he’s a man of very few words but his body communicates a lot more than he realizes.

  For example, this morning while I was doing the dishes, I felt his eyes all over my ass. Oh yeah, without looking I knew that his eyes were glued to my curves, running up and down deliciously, and then up and down again. I put in a special wiggle, a teasing sway, but the alpha remained silent.

  To be honest, I’d wanted to do more than wiggle and tease, I wanted to feel him. I wanted to rub up against him and trail my breasts against his chest like a horny kitty cat. But there’s no way I was going to let him know. As if he needed another thing to add to the growing list of ways I was weak and helpless in his presence.

  Besides, let him stew. I was being held captive for all the wrong reasons, and the hardheaded man just wouldn’t listen. It’d be so easy to call Ann-Marie or Chance to get this mess straightened out, and yet he refused. Robert had to have his way, so serve him right.