“Home,” he says, deadpan. “Now.”
The moment the door shuts behind us, it’s over. I don’t even get to shrug out of the damn jacket.
Damian slams me back into the wood with a thud, one hand fisting my collar while the other braces beside my head, and then his mouth is on mine—crushing, all heat and teeth and tongue and want with no warning and no mercy.
I gasp and yelp, my fingers clawing at his chest as I scramble for balance I never had in the first place, because the world tilts every time he looks at me, and right now I can’t even see it—only stars, black flaring behind my eyes, and the taste of him burning across my tongue.
He kisses me like he’s starving. Like I’m the last breath he’ll ever take. Like possession isn’t a choice, it’s a fact. His teeth nip my bottom lip and I whine, twisting under him, jacket still on, shoes still on, dignity long gone.
I break for air, panting, brain wheezing on fumes. “Sir—fuck—don’t we have a game in two days?” I gasp, squirming under him. “We need to rest! We need to hydrate—”
His lips brush mine again rough and cruelly calm. “Do you think I care about the Bastards right now, pup?” His voice is a growl, low and laced with promise, as if he’s daring me to say yes.
I go boneless against the door. Because no, obviously. No I don’t think he cares about the Bastards. Not when he’s pinning me like this. Not when my knees are jelly and my brain is melting and my soul is whimpering.
"Didn't think so," he says, kissing down my jaw. "Now say it again."
"S-Say what?" I stutter.
"What you screamed in the tunnel."
Of course I make it worse. I mean, better. Better, depending on who you ask. He says “say it again,” and what do I do? Do Iwhisper something sweet and reverent? Do I give him the thing he wants? The thing I know he’s waiting for?
No. No, I do not. I lean in, lips brushing his throat, all honey and sin, and I purr—“You’re the best fuck of my life.”
The silence that follows is nuclear.
Damian pulls back slow. Smirking. That terrifying kind of smirk that starts small and knowing. The one that means consequences. The one that means I’m going to regret everything and beg for more anyway. “Well then,” he murmurs. “Let’s remind you why.”
Before I can blink, he grabs me by the wrist, spins me out of the doorway, and drags me across the apartment—silent and inevitable—like a man on a mission. I don’t even realize where we’re going until I see it.
The mirror—the long hallway one I’ve avoided ever since the first time he bent me over in front of it and made me watch—looms into view, and my knees buckle on instinct, memory and heat colliding all at once.
But he doesn’t stop or ask; he plants me there like I’m nothing but a living toy, his hand curling into my hair, firm and possessive, guiding me down. “Knees,” he says, low and lethal.
I drop.
The reflection is brutal. I see everything. Wild curls, swollen lips, flushed cheeks. The jacket still hanging off my shoulders like I’m trying to cosplay desperate. Which, I guess, I am.
Damian stands behind me like a demon in black, sleeves pushed up, mouth in a lazy curve of doom, one hand still fisted in my curls, the other unbuttoning his slacks.
I moan. I moan looking at it, looking at us.
He doesn’t let me look away for a second. I’ve never hated and loved my own reflection so much. Not until he turned it into proof. Proof that I belong to him. Proof that I look better ruined.The moment my eyes flick down his fingers tighten in my hair, sharp and commanding, and jerk my head back up.
“Mirror, pup,” he growls, dark and electric. “You keep those eyes on yourself.”
I whimper, because this isn’t gentle. It’s not slow, not soft, or sweet. This is discipline. This is punishment masquerading as reward. This is Damian making damn sure I see what I look like wrecked—knees spread, lips parted, panting before he’s even touched me properly. Jacket sliding off one shoulder, eyes glassy, mouth already open like a slut with something to prove.
And he knows it. He knows exactly what that reflection does to me.
He lets go of my hair long enough to trace a line down the back of my neck and undo his slacks.
I shudder, hands twitching in my lap—and then I feel him, thick and heavy against my lips. I gasp, instinctively try to glance down, but his hand is already back in my curls before I can even catch my breath.
“Mirror,” he says again, low and quiet, which is always so much worse. “Watch.”
And I do.
