Chapter One
MARLOWE
Damian loves making me wait like this, bent over my desk, palms braced, skirt hiked high around my hips. He tells me to wear it for easy access, and I do every time. Because I crave the way his hands claim my skin and the moment when control slips from me and settles in him. It's not just want; it's something darker, something buried deep inside me that only stirs when he's near. I can never get enough.
The room holds its breath with me. Only the soft hum of the old vents whispers through the room, sending cool air over the backs of my thighs. Then,click, the lock turns, sharp and clean. My pulse stumbles in the silence it leaves behind.
I don’t move. I stay where he told me to, exposed and trembling, heart slamming against my ribs with a hunger only he satisfies. I sense him watching me. The weight of it prickles across my skin. His breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the sound triggers a deep, curling need.
He doesn’t speak—only the whisper of his steps behind me, the soft drag of fabric as he shrugs off his jacket. The rougher sound of sleeves rolling up his arms, the slow ritual of him getting ready. My body knows the rhythm of this now—the ritualof his hunger, the reverence of his touch. Anticipation tightens around my ribs like a band. I can barely breathe.
His hands find me. Firm, rough palms press against the curves of my ass. Fingers spread me open, baring me to him: raw, wet, aching. He groans behind me, low and rough. The sound is barely human, more feral than man. “Look at you,” he says, his voice heavy with want. “Dripping for me, and I haven’t even put my cock near you yet.”
Heat flushes my skin. It’s the knowing that gets me, the simple thought of him inside me, smooth and thick. That’s all it takes to make me ache. How he owns every inch of me. How I let him.
He leans in, one hand still holding me wide, the other trailing a slow line from the base of my spine to the slick center of me. His fingers brush against me there, featherlight, teasing.
“So ready for me,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “You want to be ruined, don’t you? Bent over like this, waiting to be filled. Owned.” His words slide over me like silk and smoke, dark and delicious. “You always act so innocent in front of everyone else,” he says, dragging his fingers lower, sliding one knuckle deep into me, slow, deliberate. “But here, like this? You’re filthy. You’d let me do anything.”
I gasp, thighs trembling, body clenching around him. He pulls his finger out, slick with proof. Behind me, he groans again, deep and broken. “Goddamn, Lo,” he rasps. “I’ll never get enough of this pussy.”
He kneels behind me. Warm breath fans low as his mouth brushes over me with reverent precision. He tastes me like I’m the first meal he’s had in days. Each flick, each stroke, each groan crackles through me like fire.
My fingers curl against the desk, knuckles straining. He licks deeper, harder, dragging his mouth through me like he’s carving his name into my flesh. His grip tightens as he pulls me closer tohis mouth, like he can’t get deep enough, can’t take enough. His mouth devours me with the kind of focused hunger that borders on worship.
He tastes me like I’m salvation.
Every flick, every pass of his tongue pulls a sound from my throat. I try to hold them back, but he always finds a way to make me lose control. He moans into me again, this time with a ragged edge, fingers digging into the backs of my thighs like he needs to mark me.
Hot spikes of pleasure build in tight, coiling waves. My knees begin to shake. My breath hitches, ragged and uneven, and when I whisper his name, it comes out raw and desperate.
His tongue circles tighter, then slower, then faster, coaxing the heat from me until my thighs shake. I’m right there, right on the edge, teetering, ready to fall. I’m so close I can’t think.
And then he stops.
A breath catches in my throat and I gasp. My hips chase the friction, desperate and clumsy, but he’s already gone. Air ghosts across my wet skin. Then comes the familiar sting—a quick slap, just enough to make me whimper, just enough to make my cunt clench around nothing.
His fingers drag over the curve of my ass, slow and reverent. Another blow of air makes me tremble, my nails digging into the desk. He leans in, his breath hot against my inner thigh, but he doesn’t touch where I need him. Not yet. He inhales slowly, like he’s breathing me in, tasting the heat in the air between my legs. “So fucking delicious,” he murmurs, his voice velvet-wrapped gravel. “You’re aching for it, aren’t you?”
I nod, frantic, but it’s not enough. He needs to hear it. “Please,” I whisper, my voice cracking from the strain of holding back. “I need your mouth back on me.”
His lips graze my thigh, soft, devotional, like a kiss offered to something sacred.
“I’m ruining you for anyone else,” he says, dragging his tongue in a slow line just beside where I throb, barely touching, just torturing. “No one will ever make you tremble like this.”
My body quakes, suspended between heaven and hell, his voice the tether keeping me sane.
“Say it,” he commands, his hands gripping my ass, holding me open. “Tell me whose you are.”
“Yours,” I gasp. “I’m yours, Damian. Please.”
That earns me a sound: a low growl that starts deep in his chest. Then he buries his mouth back between my legs. This time, there’s no teasing. He works me over with unrelenting precision, tongue and fingers together. Every movement has purpose. His grip anchors me. His hunger consumes me until I’m breathless and writhing. Each motion is intentional, like he’s mapping every nerve and memorizing it. His hands never stop moving—gripping, spreading, guiding—anchoring me to the edge of destruction.
My moans melt into cries. My thighs shake uncontrollably. I can’t hold back anymore. I’m coming apart.
“Let go,” he rasps between strokes. “I want to taste you when you fall.”
But just as the wave crests, right as I’m about to fall, he pulls back again. A broken sound escapes me, raw and helpless. My hips chase the pressure, desperate for the contact, but he holds me steady.
