His mouth twitches. Like the doesn’t know if he should laugh or throw me against the wall but he doesn’t move. So I do.
I reach between us, wrap my fingers around him, and guide him inside. Not fast. Not rough. Just enough to make us both feel it. The stretch. The slide. The surrender.
I sink down, inch by inch, and his breath punches out of him but I don’t let him move. I press a hand to his chest.
“No.”
His eyes open then.
And what I see?
Isn’t Damien.
Isn’t the surgeon. Or the priest. Or the executioner.
It’s all of them.
And none.
Just him.
Raw. Unshielded. Mine.
And I say it again.
“You’re mine too.”
His cock stretches me perfectly. Full. Deep. Familiar but this time, I don’t grind down on him. I don’t whimper. I don’tbeg. I just sit there—hips lowered, walls fluttering around him, watching the tension climb his throat like a threat.
His hands grip the sheets.
Not my waist.
Not my throat.
Not my leash.
Because he knows.
He knows this moment isn’t his to lead.
It’s mine.
I roll my hips once. Slow. Deep.
His jaw clenches.
I do it again.
And again.
Each movement deliberate.
Torturous.
Not to tease.
To remind him.
