“Now, pup.” His voice hits.
I obey. Fingers slick, fumbling, I reach back between my thighs and bite down on a moan as I touch myself. I slide one finger in slow, back arching, mouth falling open on a whimper. It’s not enough. “F-fuck,”
“More,” Damian says, dark and even.
I nod, gasping as I add a second, curling them just right, dragging them out slow so he sees the way I shudder and moan. I look over my shoulder and he’s still fully dressed, standing there watching.
I want him to wreck me. Ruin me. I want his hands, his mouth, his weight. But right now? He wants the show. So I give it to him. I keep going. , keep fucking myself on my own fingers while kneeling on his bed like the slut he made. I don’t stop. Not even when my thighs start to tremble. “Sir,” I gasp, choking on the sound. And then I feel him. The bed shifts. The air changes. He’s behind me now, close enough to breathe me in.
“Sir, please—please—I need you, I can’t—” I sob through clenched teeth, rocking back onto my fingers.
I feel feral.
I am feral. Every nerve is shot, skin flushed, chest heaving, thighs slick with sweat, and he still hasn’t touched me. Not really. Just his voice. Just those dark, cold eyes dragging across every inch of my shaking body while I wreck myself for him.
“If you come,” Damian says, low, calm, dangerous, “we stop, pup.”
My whole body twitches like he dumped ice water down my spine.
He steps closer, the floor creaking under his boots. “But I’m—” I pant, “I’m so close, I—”
“I didn’t ask if you were close,” he says, still perfectly still, still watching. “I said if you come, it’s over. No cock. No come. You go to bed hard and leaking.”
I whine, loud and ugly, burying my face in the sheets as my fingers curl inside me, trembling on the edge. He’s not even naked yet.
My vision blurs as I hear the first button of his shirt pop. Then the second. The rustle of fabric as he shrugs it off, slow and deliberate. The metallic clink of his belt undoing. I swear I feel the sound in my teeth. I don’t look. I can’t. If I see him like that, I’ll fucking shatter.
But then I do. Just a glance over my shoulder, watery-eyed and ruined—and he’s halfway bare, chest carved like a Greek statue, belt dangling from his hand like a leash.
He catches me looking. “Eyes front.”
I snap back so fast I almost give myself whiplash.
“Good boy,” he murmurs.
“Sir, please—please, let me come, let me have it, I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll take it so deep, I’ll do anything you say—”
“You already are doing everything I say, pup,” Damian says, stepping behind me now, finally, close enough that his breath brushes my neck. “So tell me—is that enough for you? Or do you want more?”
“I want everything,” I cry, knuckles white on the sheets, face hot with shame and want.
He leans in. And finally his cock brushes the backs of my thighs. He grabs my wrist. And pulls my fingers out of myself.
I whimper, sharp and guttural, my whole body shuddering. I’m slick, stretched and empty. The absence is violent. Then I feel it. The heat of him. The weight. The thick, impossible press of the head of his cock nudging between my cheeks, there but not in, just a tease, just a threat. My hips jolt without thinking, pushing back like I can force more of him in.
“Greedy brat,” Damian growls, voice low and crackling.
I brace on my forearms, knees spread, spine curved into a perfect arc—and then he does it. He presses in. Just the tip. Not even halfway.
My breath punches out of me in a sob. Then…nothing. No more. No movement. Only that stretch, that unbearable ache, that promise burning behind me.
“Move, pup.”
I freeze. “W-what?”
“You heard me,” he murmurs. “You want more? You work for it. You fuck yourself on my cock like the desperate little slut you are.”
Oh God. I bite my lip, hands shaking where they grip the sheets, arms on the verge of collapse, thighs trembling—but I move anyway. Back, slow, until I feel him sink slightly deeper, then forward, easing off again. It’s torture, every motion like sawing myself open inch by inch, my own hips betraying me as they chase every inch of him.
