He didn’t bench me last night
Damian’s voice cuts through the kitchen. “Mercer.”
I blink, pause the replay, sip my coffee, and pretend to behave while he stands there with a spatula in hand, bare chest fully on display, gray sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips. His hair is still damp, the scar carved clean across him, eyes sharp and watching me like he knows exactly what I'm doing.
I try not to melt. “What?” I blink up at him all innocent-like.
His eyebrow arches. “You chirping Cole again?”
“No,” I lie immediately as if his own phone hasn’t been vibrating for the past ten minutes with the group chat. We weren’t even being subtle.
He stalks closer. I immediately turn the volume back up and pretend to focus on the play.
From the corner of my eye, I see the way his jaw ticks. The way his eyes drag slow down my bare thighs, the jersey, the bruises he left like a brand. He says nothing. Just flips a pancake and mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “brat.”
God, I love this man.
He finishes making breakfast in complete, terrifying silence. Not because he’s mad. No, this is worse. This is calculating. He stacks the pancakes on a plate, drizzles syrup, grabs the coffee pot with his free hand and then walks straight over to me like a man with a plan and zero fucks left to give.
I blink up at him with what I hope is a charming grin.
He sets the plate down, sits beside me, reaches under the blanket with one hand to tug me across his lap.
“Sir—?”
“Quiet,” he mutters, and lifts the fork.
Oh. Oh fuck.
The first bite is hot and sweet, and I open my mouth like I’m trained for it, because I am. Because I would die to be hand-fed in nothing but his number and my bruises. I moan around the second bite. He smirks and I melt harder.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, brushing a drip of syrup off my bottom lip with his thumb. His other arm wraps around my waist, holding me tight to his chest.
“You’re gonna kill me,” I mumble around a bite of pancake.
“You’ll die full and marked,” he says.
God help me, I grin.
He feeds me another bite, slow, deliberate, fork brushing my lip and I open my mouth for it like a prince. Syrup hits my tongue, warm and sweet, and I hum around it, licking the edge of the fork as it slides out.
I can feel him under me—hard, hot and absolutely unbothered. Which is complete bullshit, because I’m in his lap, half-naked, fed like a pet, and every nerve in my body is a live wire. And he's smirking like I’m not currently soaking his sweatpants with pure, aching need.
So I grind down. Just once. Slow. A long, filthy drag of my hips over the growing length under me, enough to make my head tip back, my lashes flutter. The jersey rides higher. His hand on mywaist tightens and I go still. Blink up at him with syrup-glossed lips and a very fake halo.
His eyes are molten. “You testing me, pup?”
“No, sir,” I purr, instantly.
“Try again.”
I bite my lip. Then do it again. The grind is shameless this time, slow and sweet, and I feel the growl that rips through his chest. He grabs my hip with one hand and holds me there, locked against the heat of him, while his other hand feeds me another bite.
“Open,” he says, dark and quiet.
I do. Because I’m nothing if not obedient when I’m this fucked out and fed.
“Keep acting up,” he mutters. “See if I don’t bend you over this couch and fuck the syrup right out of you.”
