The air grows thick with the scent of arousal and sweat. The only sounds in the room: my shallow breathing, his wet mouth, the occasional whimper that escapes my throat. His nose grazes my clit as his tongue works just below it, pressing firm circles into that spot that makes my stomach tighten. So close to where I need him, yet not giving me release. Not yet.
My body lowers onto him in a slow arc, every inch measured. He lets me settle, offers neither resistance nor encouragement—only the ritual of his waiting mouth, glued to the ache between my thighs. His tongue teases the rim, tasting me like a sacred duty. I twist my fingers into his dark curls, tugging lightly. “Don’t stop,” I murmur, my voice catching as his rumbling moan vibrates against my skin.
I rock my hips once, then twice—each movement deliberate, hungry—but I freeze just shy of the precipice. I lift an inch, easing off the delicious pressure. His groan hitches in his throat; I whisper, “Not yet. I decide when.” He whimpers, lips parted, tongue flicking out as if to beg. Every soft pant, every desperate blink of his glassy eyes fuels my control.
Lowering again, I glide across his mouth, drowning him in my taste. His lips are wet and swollen, stained with my essence; his cheeks flush dark. I hover—just barely contacting his lips with my wet apex—thighs quivering, knees burning against the rug. I refuse to descend further. He trembles beneath me, a silent plea. He lives to remind me how much I can want this.
My fingers drift down to his lips. He parts them instinctively; I trace a trembling fingertip across the plush swell, watching his tongue curl around it as though worshipping. A sharp, guttural moan escapes him. I lean forward until his nose brushes the sensitive pearl of my clit—light, precise pressure that jolts warmth through me. My breath stutters; muscles coil tight. Yet I rise again, maintaining the maddening tease.
He bucks his hips, cock twitching, aching for friction I withhold. I murmur, low and measured, “You’re not allowed to make me cum. You’re only here to remind me I can.” He nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing, eyes dark fire. Then, slowly—lift and lower, lift and lower—in a sacred rhythm we forge ritual from ruin.
I hover above him, heart hammering, sight flickering between pleasure and power. His mouth is my altar; I am the torch he cannot yet ignite. Heat pools in my belly, taut and urgent. I lift again—and this time his hands clamp around my thighs, firm and commanding. “No,” he growls, and with one swift tug pulls me down so hard I gasp.
Before I can protest, his tongue plunges deep—bold, rough, perfect. He rakes it between my folds, claiming me as his. He circles my clit once, twice, then clamps it between slick lips and sucks with beautiful savagery. A cry tears from me; my fingers claw at his head, my knees threaten to give. But he holds me fast, nose buried in the heat of me, tongue flicking cruelly precise patterns of sensation.
He spreads my thighs wider, pressing me open so his tongue can delve farther. I pant, arching, every nerve afire. Stars burst behind my eyes as wave after wave of shattering bliss builds. “Damien—please—” I beg, my voice a ragged hymn to that fierce, relentless devotion.
He never slows. His jaw muscles bunch as he grinds his teeth, the low growl vibrating through me until it hammers against my clit like a live wire. A surge of pleasure rockets up my spine—too fierce, too fast—and my body threatens to erupt. My thighs clamp shut, my belly curls tight, and my breath shatters into ragged moans.
Then—silence.
No wet tongue. No insistent pressure. Only his hot breath ghosting over my slick skin, and the cruel hush of denialpressing in. He hovers above me, words hushed but heavy: “No. Not yet.”
One languid lick, feather-light, and I quake from the teasing slash of sensation. He chuckles—a deep, predatory sound. “You’re not in charge anymore, little spider.”
His tongue returns, gliding slow and deliberate. It circles, plunges, retreats—holding me at the razor’s edge of release, over and over. My body trembles, slick and desperate, each nerve ending ablaze. Yet he never lets me fall.
I pant, muscles trembling so hard I feel torn apart from the inside. My secretions pool between my thighs, a slick testament to how close I am. But his inhuman focus never wavers. Tongue flick, slow circular drag, sudden thrust—my clit throbs under his cruel ministrations.
“Say it,” he rumbles against my hip, each word a promise of more torment. “Tell me what you are.”
I open my mouth, but only a soft whimper escapes.
“Say it, Raven. Or I stop.”
Desperation claws at me. My fingers tangle in his hair; my back arches off the mattress like a bow drawn tight. “Y—Yours…”
He clamps his mouth onto me, hot and wet and absolute. Pain fractures into pleasure, and I gasp his name. “Yours. I’m yours.”
He pulls back, leaving a gasp suspended in the air. My sobs catch in my throat. “No?—”
CRACK: his palm lands on my inner thigh, sharp as lightning. “Don’t you dare whine. You don’t get to beg until I let you.”
I shiver, trembling with need so fierce I might combust. He rises from between my legs, a dark silhouette crowned in candlelight, chin slick with my arousal.
“Lie back.”
Obedience costs me nothing; I stretch out, naked and exposed, wrists slack—but only for a heartbeat. He retrieves silk ties from the drawer, then clamps and candles and a tray of wicked toys.
Moments later, my wrists are bound—silk biting into my skin—while he hovers, gaze burning as he fastens a metal clamp onto my nipple. I choke on a gasp, clenching every muscle against the jolt of pain.
“Every time you say you’re mine, you get a stroke of my tongue,” he murmurs, then pinches down.
Agony blooms white-hot, and I nod. My voice is a broken thread: “I’m yours.”
He swipes his tongue over my clit—just once. I shudder. “Again.”
“I’m yours.”
