I part my lips and let him press in slow. He slides forward inch by inch, filling my mouth. And the whole time I’m forced to look. At the spit on my chin, the stretch of my lips, the way my throat bobs when I try to take him deeper.
“Good pup,” he murmurs, voice ragged. “Look at you. So fucking pretty like this.”
I moan around him.
He shudders. “Don’t stop,” he says. “Don’t fucking stop until I tell you to.”
I nod, hands fisting my own thighs, eyes wide and wet and glued to the boy in the mirror, this version of me that only exists under him.
His fingers fist my hair tight, tight enough to make my scalp ache, enough to remind me I’m his. Not a boy, not a player, not a rookie, just a mouth to fuck and a throat to ruin.
He holds me still, hand twisted deep in my curls, the other braced against the wall like he’s controlling the urge to shatter me.
Then he moves. Each thrust is a claim, a growledthis is minethat sinks down my spine and curls in my gut like fire. My eyes stay locked on the mirror, tears streaking down my cheeks as I moan around him.
He watches too. Not just me, us, that reflection, that filthy, obscene, perfect reflection of Damian Kade fucking my mouth. “Mine,” he growls and thrust. “Mine,” he says again, rougher now, his grip in my hair flexing with every slow push of his hips.
My knees burn and my jaw aches as I choke around him, gagging once when he pushes too deep, but he doesn’t stop or apologize—he only tightens his grip and groans like I’ve ripped his soul clean out of his body.
“Good pup,” he rasps. “Look at that pretty mouth taking me. You see that? You see what you do to me?”
I nod. I try. I can’t speak—not with him buried so deep, not with my throat working so hard to breathe—but my eyes are wide and wet and locked on the mirror. And I swear that boy in the glass looks wrecked and beautiful and worshipped, owned so completely it shows in every line of him.
He pulls out right as I moan, a sharp tug to my hair and the wet pop of my mouth losing its anchor, and suddenly I’m left gasping on my knees, lips red, throat sore, aching for it.
I blink up at him, stunned and he’s smirking—of course he is. “Not yet,” Damian says, voice cruel and completely unfazed by the trembling mess at his feet. “You don’t get it until you ask properly.”
I whimper. “I was asking—”
“No, pup,” he interrupts, already backing away. “You were bratting.”
I scramble to my feet, dizzy, stumbling after him as he turns toward the bedroom like this is a stroll and I’m not seconds from collapsing from need. “Sir—fuck, please—I want to—”
“What do you want?” he asks without looking back, his voice casual and teasing. “Use your words, baby.”
I follow. Fast. Clutching the edges of the jacket still hanging from my shoulders, ruined and vibrating with every step. “I want to taste you again,” I pant. “I want to swallow you, sir, please.”
He opens the bedroom door and walks in.
I chase. “I need it—need you—you taste like mine, and I want it. I need to earn it, please, let me have it—”
He tosses the jacket off me this time and lets it drop to the floor.
I follow him to the bed like I don’t have bones anymore. “I’ll be good,” I beg, voice cracking. “I’ll say whatever you want, do whatever you want, just—please, let me finish you. Let me have you—”
He turns and grabs me by the throat hard enough to make me shut up with a whimper and look at him. Damian stares down at me like I’m prey already caught. “You want it that bad, pup?” he murmurs.
I nod, frantic, desperate and fucking starving.
“Then prove it,” he says. “On the bed. On your knees.”
Damian grabs the bottle of lube we keep on the nightstand and tosses it on the bed. “Open yourself up for me, baby.”
I blink at him, at the bottle, at the mirror visible in the hallway where I was on my knees less than a minute ago with spit still on my chin and my brain still dripping out of my ears. And then I look back at him. He’s not smirking anymore. That’s how I know I’m in trouble.
His voice is quiet, barely holding himself together, and that should scare me. It should make me hesitate. But all it does is make my fingers shake harder as I unscrew the cap.
I crawl onto the bed, scrambling to rid myself of my slacks and boxers. Every movement feels loud. Exposed. Shameful in that perfect way he likes me best, knees apart, back arched, cheeks flushed. I rest one hand on the mattress for balance, the other clutching the bottle so tight I almost drop it. The air in the room feels electric.
