“What’s wrong?”
He hesitated, then spoke low. “You’re so fragile. I’m afraid for you. Because I know I could break you. Leave nothing but ruins, remake you into what I choose.”
My heart lurched, then thundered against my ribs, loud enough to drown thought. My chest tightened; my body betrayed me. Shouldn’t that frighten me? It didn’t.
It got worse.
Too much.
Too close.
Too deep.
I wanted him more for it. His grip tightened around my wrists, almost painfully, as if to make sure I could not escape—not from his hold, not from his words, not from him. His free hand traced over me, slow, deliberate, leaving fire in its wake until it reached my thigh. Instinctively I parted my legs, as if some hidden part of me already understood he had claimed me. He lowered himself between them, his breath brushing my skin like liquid flame.
When his tongue touched me, I flinched. My fingers dug into sand—the grains burned like splinters beneath my nails. Every nerve tuned to him, every fiber strung tight, as though he’d rewired me. And yet, each time the wave inside me began to crest, he pulled back. Torture. Cold. Calculated. Perfect.
“Damian, please.”
“Please what?” he asked. He was playing. With me. With everything I was.
“Let me…”
“You want me to let you come? To keep fucking you with my tongue?”
I shut my eyes. Shame and desire clashed inside me, two wild beasts.
“Then say it. Say you belong to me. Because if you can’t, you’ll never feel this again. Never again my hands. Never again my closeness. Never again me.”
Fear, hunger, a deep aching that only he could soothe trembled through me.
“I belong to you,” I whispered. “I… I belong to you.” As the words left me, I asked myself why he always wanted to hear that—not that I loved him, not that I would stay, but that I belonged. I understood. Possession was his safety. Love, in his world, never existed free. It had to be controlled, bound, held tight. If I belonged to him, I couldn’t leave. If I belonged to him, I couldn’t hurt him. If I belonged, he remained the one who decided how deep it went. Maybe that was his way of loving— in chains, with skin, with voice, with vow.
With a ravenous glint in his eyes, Damian dove between my thighs again, and every movement dragged me further from myself. Ecstasy slammed into me like a storm, ripping everything loose, sweeping me under. Then he was on top of me—hot, heavy, his body sealing me to the earth. Our fingers tangled, his grip so fierce it felt like he was pinning me to reality itself. Then he thrust into me—hard, deep, merciless. I wanted to scream, but the sound caught in my throat. Every thrust was an unspoken command: You belong to me.
“Only I will feel you like this. No one else,” he whispered hoarsely against my ear. “You won’t forget. You won’t want another man again. You’ll crave me—in every breath, in every dream, in every night.”
It was manipulation. Pure and sharp. It was also truth. My truth. His truth. I felt it in my chest, in my skin, in my bones. He was my ruin, and I was willing to love him for it.
“I want to come in your mouth. And you’re going to swallow every drop. Understand?”
“Yes,” I breathed. He pulled out of me and knelt above me.
“Open.” He shoved himself past my lips, hands locked on either side of my head, holding me as he drove himself into my throat. Damian groaned, his body shuddering as he came in a hard rush. Heat spilled down my throat.
“Swallow it, Daisy. All of it.”
Moments later he collapsed beside me in the sand, chest heaving. For a long while we lay in silence as darkness crept over us and the waves whispered their steady song. Stars blinked awake above. His hand stroked my back, and the sudden tenderness undid me. Maybe—just maybe—I could break through the hard shell of this man.
He hesitated, then his voice came low. “The way you see the world fascinates me. I like being with you.”
I lifted my gaze slowly and felt the weight of that confession.
Startled by his own honesty, he turned away, rose quickly, and pulled on his pants. He fetched my dress and handed it to me. I slipped it over my head, skin still buzzing.
“This,” he said, holding up my panties like a stolen relic, “is now property of the Miller Foundation for indecently good memories.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
