I whine into the cushions, hips bucking as he slides back in with a groan. It’s deeper like this. Worse. Perfect. The couch shakes under us. And he starts to thrust hard and deep. Like I didn’t just come twice already, not already clinging to the throw pillows like they’re a lifeline. Like I don’t sob every single time he hits that spot that makes me scream. “Fuck—God—sir—!”
“That’s it, pup,” he groans behind me, his voice unraveling, hips snapping sharp. “Take it. Take all of me. Again. Show me how good you are.”
I moan, louder now, every thrust punching sound from my throat. His hand wraps around my throat from behind, yanking me up just enough so he can say it right into my ear. “You want to be mine forever, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir—yes—”
“You want the ring, the whole fucking world.”
I nod so hard I’m dizzy, hands scrabbling for anything to hold onto.
“Then scream for it,” he snarls, slamming in deep—and I do.
He wraps his free hand around my length and strokes in time with his thrusts and I completely lose my damn mind. My third orgasm rips through me like a goddamn trainwreck, my body collapsing under the weight of it as Damian finally groans and fills me up, biting into my shoulder as he comes hard, flooding me with heat and praise and everything I’ve ever begged for.
We collapse. A mess of syrup and sweat and bruises. And I can’t stop smiling. I feel him move behind me. Feel the press of his chest lift away, feel his breath hit the curve of my back and then…He pulls out. Slowly. So slow it drags a shattered sound from my throat. My hips twitch forward instinctively, chasing the fullness, already missing it.
“Sir—” I whine, voice barely working.
But then he’s there again. His hands slide down to grip my thighs, holding them wide. And then his mouth.
Oh shit.
His mouth finds the mess between my cheeks. The first swipe of his tongue makes me yelp startled and feral. “Cap—!”
His only answer is a growl. And then he starts cleaning me. Syrup. Sweat. Spit. Cum. Everything he just gave me, licked up slow, reverent, while his thumbs keep me spread, his mouth devours like it’s his last meal. Every lick sloppier than the last. He shoves it back inside me with his tongue, pressing it in so deep I see stars.
I claw at the couch cushions, practically levitating off the armrest, but he doesn’t let me. One arm clamps down across my lower back. The other grabs under my thigh, pulling me open wider. I can’t move. Not that I'd want to.
“Oh my god—sir—fuck, please—” My toes curl. My body shakes. My thighs tremble so hard I think I might scream again, already hard and leaking and begging as if I didn’t just come three fucking times.
He groans low into me, tongue fucking me slow and deep until I’m a puddle of syrup-sticky wreckage, my voice gone, my body twitching.
“Mine,” he rasps against my hole. “Every damn drop.”
“Sir—please—please—” I’m squirming. My thighs keep trying to close, but Damian’s grip is steel, holding me open as his mouth devours me. He’s not teasing. He’s not stopping. He’s tongue-fucking me so thoroughly, it feels like he’s trying to claim every inch of me from the inside out.
And he is.
I claw at the couch. I sob into the cushions. My whole body jerks when he sucks at the edge of me, just to shove it back in with a filthy groan that makes my spine arch.
“Sir—” I’m not even sure what I’m begging for anymore. Release? Relief? Ruin? All I know is that if he stops, I’ll die. Right here. Syrup-slick and split open on the couch, sobbing his name. “Please don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. He groans low, wet tongue pushing deeper, rough stubble scraping my thighs as his hands tighten, gripping hard enough to bruise. My hips jerk forward uselessly, but he pulls me back, pins me down and feasts on me.
I come again. This man is going to drain me.
No hands. No friction. Just his tongue still inside me and his voice dragging praise down my spine as I collapse, a sobbing, sticky, trembling fucking mess. “Good boy,” he murmurs, finally easing up, his mouth hot on my lower back. “You fucking take everything I give you.”
I moan weakly, barely conscious.
His hands stroke my sides now, soothing and grounding. I’m barely functioning. He kisses my hip, then my thigh, and finally he lifts me into his arms, one arm under my knees, the other cradling my back. “Time for the shower, pup,” he whispers, kissing my hair.
I just nod.
Or try to. I think I’m dead.
Round two. Home ice. And every bone in my body already knows what’s coming.
