And again.
Faster.
Meaner.
He’s not fucking me like he wants me to come.
He’s fucking me like he wants to brand me.
Like every stroke is a stake through the parts of me that ever wandered.
And then—he slows.
But he doesn’t pull out.
He buries himself to the hilt and stays there.
His chest heaves against mine.
His lips graze my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
And he whispers?—
“Open your eyes.”
I do.
His stare pins me.
“I want you to watch me while I ruin you.”
I whimper—soft, wrecked—and nod.
He thrusts again.
Deeper this time.
Cruel and slow.
And again.
My head thuds against the wall, but his hand slides behind it now, cushioning the impact.
Possession and care. Dominance and precision.
I’m breaking open around him.
And he won’t stop.
“You’re mine, little spider,” he hisses. “Every fucking inch. Every hole. Every breath.”
“Yours,” I whisper, already spiraling.
“Say it louder.”
“Yours, Damien—*fuck—*I’m yours?—”
He growls something low and violent against my throat, and the sound alone nearly finishes me.
