“You like this?” he breathes, his voice a rasp of pure want against my skin. “Me watching you like this?”
I shudder, my body betraying me, answering him without words.
He must know.
His lips find my neck, his teeth scraping, not gentle, not careful. He drags his hands up my stomach, fingers spreading wide, his palms claiming every inch of my wet skin.
I press back against him, needing more, needing everything.
His growl is low, primal, vibrating through my spine, through the heat of his body pressed against mine. “Say it,” he murmurs, his hands exploring, demanding, teasing.
My fingers clutch at his arms, my breath faltering. “I like it,” I whisper.
“Louder.” His grip tightens.
I arch against him, my pulse a relentless drumbeat beneath my skin. “I like it.”
His hand slides lower.
The second his fingers slip between my thighs, I lose myself.
Damian is everywhere—his tongue at my neck, his teeth scraping my shoulder.
Then he thrusts his fingers inside me.
A choked gasp rips from my throat. My legs tremble, my hands shooting up to brace against the tile as heat crashes through me, raw and all-consuming.
"Fuck," he mutters against my neck, voice wrecked, like he's the one unraveling. His free hand slides up my stomach, palming my breast, squeezing, teasing as his fingers work me open.
Two fingers. Three. Fuck, now four.
I whimper, pressing back against him, my hips rolling into every sharp, deep thrust. My body is burning, strung so tight I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel.
"Listen to you," he murmurs, his voice rough, gritted through clenched teeth. "Moaning and taking everything I give you." His fingers curl, stroking deep, hitting the spot that makes my insides melt. My body clenches, the sensation building, tightening, winding too fast, too sharp.
I’m already so close.
His thrusts quicken, relentless, each stroke pushing me higher, his thumb working my clit in slow, devastating circles. The intensity spirals, burning through me, spreading like fire, consuming everything in its path. “I’m so close. Don’t stop.”
And then he stops.
I gasp, my entire body jerking in protest. He pulls his fingers from me—quick, brutal.
I turn, wide-eyed, panting, desperate. “Damian,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Please…”
He brings his hand up, his fingers glistening with my arousal. His gaze pins me in place, his breath ragged. Then he licks them clean.
My knees nearly buckle.
His lips curl wickedly.
My pulse hammers, my body still aching from the way he touched me, from the way he took me to the edge and left me starving. I step forward, my hands reaching for his soaked shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, tugging. He doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t move. He just watches.
I drag his shirt up, over the ridges of his stomach and chest, peeling it off and letting it drop to the shower floor. I move to his buckle, undoing it roughly, my fingers shaking from want, from need, from something blindingly frantic.
He lets out a low growl, his body taut beneath my hands.
I push his jeans down, shoving past the drenched fabric, my fingers brushing against him. His cock is thick, hard, burning hot against my palm, and the second I touch him, his whole body tenses.
