“Tell me what you need,” I growl, my lips brushing her throat, my fingers digging into her thighs as I spread her open beneath me.
“You,” she gasps, her voice cracking like something inside her is breaking loose. “I need you—I don’t want to think—I just want you.”
I grab her wrists and pin them above her head with one hand, my other sliding down her side, claiming every inch like it’s mine. Because it is. Mine. All fucking mine.
My mouth finds her chest, her neck, the place just beneath her ear where she shudders every time I bite. And I do. Hard enough to leave a mark. Her body arches into mine, heat rolling off her in waves, and I swear I can hear her heart beating.
If we keep going like this, it’ll be over in seconds.
We’re both ravenous—grinding, gasping, clawing at each other like we’ve got seconds instead of hours. She’s panting under me, clawing at my shoulders, her thighs gripping my waist like she wants to fuse us together and never let go. Her hips are already rolling up into me, my cock throbbing against my zipper, and all I want is to bury myself in her and never come up for air.
But that’s not what this is.
I’m supposed to be distracting her. I'm not here to just get her off. I’m here toownevery inch of her. To worship her. To make her forget the fire, the ashes, the fucking ghosts clawing at her thoughts. I pull back.
Her mouth falls open in protest, but before she can speak, I grab the cups of her bra and yank them down.
Her breasts bounce free, and for a second, I can’t breathe. They're fucking perfect—soft and full, nipples already tight from the friction and my hands. She looks wrecked and divine and so goddamn beautiful I could lose my mind right here.
Then, eyes locked on mine, she reaches between us and unclasps it with a flick at the center of her chest.
It falls open.
She slides it off her shoulders and hands it to me without saying a word.
It’s not just hot—it's surrender. And it slams into me like a truck.
“Arms up, Angel. You’re not going anywhere,” I whisper, my voice low and rough. “Not until you forgeteverythingbut me.”
She obeys instantly.
I rise up on my knees, thread the straps of the bra through the bars of the headboard, then knot her wrists there—just tight enough. She’s spread out beneath me, breathing hard, vulnerable in the most dangerous and beautiful way.
“Look at you,” I murmur, running the backs of my fingers down the length of her arms. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”
She smirks through a breathless moan. “Oh, I know exactly what I do to you. I feel it every time you touch me.” Her eyes are glassy with lust and something deeper—need, ache, longing—and I feel my control slip another inch.
I lower my mouth to her chest, and I linger there, my tongue lips brushing over one nipple, tongue flicking slow and deliberate while my hand cups the weight of the other. Her back arches off the bed, hips twitching beneath me, wrists straining against the bra as I take my time. I suck the tight peak into my mouth, gently at first, then harder, letting my teeth scrape just enough to make her cry out. Her thighs clench around me, desperate for friction, but I ignore everything else. I want her trembling from just this. Just my mouth, my tongue, my teeth. I roll the other nipple between my fingers—soft, then firm, until it’s pebbled and sensitive and swollen. She gasps my name, half-plea, half-moan, and I switch sides without warning, lavishing the other one like I’m starving for her. Because I am. I want her undone before I ever touch what’s between her legs. I want her begging, wrecked, completely lost in the feel of me worshipping every inch of her.
She moans under me, lashes fluttering as her wrists pull against the makeshift tie. “Fuck me, Damian,”she breathes, voice ragged.“Don’t stop until I forget my own name.”
My cock throbs hard at her words, sharp and immediate, but I grit my teeth and swallow it down. Not yet.
I press one last kiss to the swell of her breast, then move lower, dragging my mouth down the center of her torso. I trace my tongue across her ribs, bite softly at the dip of her waist, and when I reach her stomach, I pause—kissing it like it’s sacred, like I’m worshipping the body that’s haunted me since the moment I first touched her.
Her skin jumps beneath my mouth when I swirl my tongue into her belly button. She gasps, hips twitching up in invitation, but I hold her still with one strong hand on her hip. Then I go slower.
I slide my hands down her sides, hooking my thumbs into the waistband of her jeans. I don't rush. I unbutton them with aching patience, my fingers slow. I tug the zipper down one tooth at a time.
She’s breathing harder now, body shifting restlessly beneath me, desperate for more.
I slide her jeans down her legs, inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin as it’s revealed—her hipbones, the inside of her thighs, the delicate curve of her knee. I press a kiss to the bruise on her shin and the arch of her foot. Everywhere but the one place she wants me most.
Her breath catches in a pleading little moan. Her wrists strain against the headboard. “Damian,” she whines. “Please.”
I slide my palms slowly back up her legs and stop just before the thin fabric of her panties. I hover there, my mouth close enough that she can feel the heat of my breath through the lace. But I don’t kiss her there. Oh no, not yet. Instead, I press my lips to the soft skin of her inner thigh, then the other, dragging my mouth over her like she’s mine to study, to savor, to devour in my own time.
She tries to rock her hips toward my mouth, and I grip them down with both hands, holding her still. Then I move lower—but not there. Not yet.
