He caught my wrists and clamped them above my head, his weight unforgiving as it pressed me into the mattress. “I’m going to show you what it means to belong to me.”
I heard the faint hiss as he reached for the pants draped over the chair beside the bed and slid the belt free from the loops. A sound that made my blood run cold. Before I could even comprehend, the cold, rough leather wrapped around my wrists. With a sharp, merciless movement, he whipped the belt tight. A startled gasp tore from my lips. Panic sparked in me, sharp and real. But with it came heat. A heat I hated. I knew I should be afraid, should resist, should scream. Yet my body betrayed me—trembling, aching, burning for him even as fear curled in my chest. That contradiction tore me open more than his grip ever could.
“Please…” I whispered, though I didn’t even know what I was pleading for. A storm raged inside me. I knew I should be afraid. And yet—I wanted it. I wanted to see how far he would go.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Shhh,” he murmured, his voice almost tender. Almost. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have denied it—my body trembled with desire. I hated myself for it. And I loved him for it. I wanted him to break me. Not to wound me—but to prove I was his. And that was exactly what I craved.
He smacked my ass with the flat of his hand—not lovingly, not playfully. It stung. And at the same time, something inside me burned hotter, in ways I didn’t understand. I buried my face in the blanket to keep from crying out. From the pain. From the shame of wanting him despite everything. He leaned over me, grindingagainst me. He was hard. Hard because I was trembling. Hard because I was at his mercy.
“Do you feel that, Daisy?” he murmured in my ear. “Nothing turns me on more than seeing you like this beneath me.”
It was sick. All of it. But I wanted more. I wanted him. I wanted him so badly I no longer recognized myself.
A broken sound slipped from my throat—not a scream, not a word. Just a raw, strangled noise.
“The more you tremble, the more I want you.” His hand slid lower, over my ass, slow, deliberate, cruel. “You should be crying, Daisy,” he whispered. “Instead, I can feel you getting wet.” His words dragged me deeper into the abyss.
I writhed beneath him as much as I could—cheek pressed to the mattress, hands bound above my head. I felt him shifting behind me. His hands skimmed over my thighs, slow, controlled, before forcing them apart. I let him. What else could I do? I was his.
He leaned lower. His breath brushed my skin—hot, demanding. Then his lips touched me—right where I ached most. From behind, his mouth claimed me. I could have screamed. Not from pain. From the maddening pleasure crashing over me. How could one man be both the storm and the refuge?
I wanted to say no. Wanted to break free. Tell him to stop. That he was going too far. But my body screamed something else. My body clung to the feeling like it was more than lust. Like it was proof. Proof I still existed. Proof he still wanted me. And that was my damn mistake.
I felt his tongue, his hunger, his absolute control. I felt my very core betraying me. You don’t want this, my mind cried. Not like this. But my heart screamed louder: you need him. I pressed my face deeper into the pillow so I wouldn’t break—not in front of him, not in front of myself. I fought with everything I was. And I lost. And I came. I came into his hunger, into his obsession, into his darkness.
“It drives me insane to see you come because of me.”
I sucked in a shaky breath. “I want to feel you inside me, Damian.” I needed him—now.
He straightened slowly, gripped my hips, and rolled me onto my back. His gaze was cold. Unyielding. “Stand up,” he ordered.
I obeyed. My legs trembled, my breath came ragged, but he held me fast—gave me no choice, no escape.
“And now,” he said quietly, “get on your knees.”
I obeyed, lowering myself slowly.
Then he gripped me by the hair and tilted my face up so I had to look at him. “You want me?” he murmured. “Then prove it.”
I hesitated, but the cold expression in his eyes left no doubt.
“Say you need me. That you can’t live without me. Beg to belong to me. And beg to be fucked by me.”
The words burned in the air—inescapable, demanding. His grip stayed firm as he studied me, savoring every twitch, every tremor. My throat tightened. The words fought to come, but shame and pride held them back. The silence thickened, suffocating. His grip on me tightened. His eyes were merciless.
“Go on,” he murmured. “Say it.”
Why did he need to hear it? Why demand that I say it? Because it wasn’t enough for him that I wanted him. He had to know. He had to hear it—from my mouth, against my shame, against my fear, against whatever scraps of pride I still clung to. He wanted me to confess—not to him, but to myself, beneath him. To admit what I truly felt. That I wanted him exactly as he was. Not in spite of his darkness, but because of it.
I hated myself for it. And I loved him for it. How could one person be both the storm and the refuge?
Maybe he needed proof I wasn’t just a victim but a willing accomplice. That I knew exactly what I was surrendering to.
Maybe it was control.
Or fear. Or both.
