Silence.
I inhale shakily, and try one more time, voice trembling from how hard I’m trying to stay still. “Please, sir. I want to be yours so bad it hurts.”
Damian takes a step forward, then another, until he’s towering over me—his boots near my knees, his hand settling lightly at the back of my neck, fingers curling as he murmurs, “Good boy.”
I shudder.
“But you’re still not seeing the ring.”
I wail into his thigh.
Damian moves like I was never meant to touch the floor in the first place. His arms scoop me up, and I yelp as he tosses me onto the bed, my legs still dangling over the edge. The second my ass hits the mattress, he’s there—hands on my thighs, prying me open so fast a wrecked little sound tears out of my throat.
“Fuck—” My head drops back against the pillows, but I don’t even get a breath before I feel his knees hitting the floor. That smug, powerful man just dropped to his knees for me, and I swear the room tilts with it.
Then his mouth starts—slow, cruel and worshipful—a kiss just above my knee, then another, higher, until his tongue drags up the inside of my thigh, hot and slow enough to short-circuit my entire brain.
I twitch.
“Easy, pup,” he murmurs, vibrating against my skin. “You’ll have it. The ring. My name. The whole world if that’s what you want.”
My hips jerk. “Then give it to me—”
He bites—not hard, but enough—and I choke on the sound that escapes me.
“After playoffs,” he growls, licking over the sting like he didn’t just wreck me with a single sentence. “Win me that Cup, baby. Then you can wear me.”
My hands curl in the sheets, legs shaking as his mouth stays maddeningly high, his voice dropping too low to survive, and the ring I was tearing the apartment apart for becomes a distantblur—burned away by the searing, slick pressure of his mouth moving higher, higher, higher—
And then he finally tastes me—and my brain goes completely, blindingly blank. His mouth is relentless as it sinks down on my length, hot and slow and devastating, and I’m unraveling in real time, every inch he touches setting fire to my skin. Every flick of his tongue, every suck of his lips, every low groan that vibrates around me carves a new kind of torture, and I’m already panting, thighs trembling, hands fisting the sheets like they’ll keep me grounded.
But there’s no point—he owns the air, the light, the gravity holding my spine to this earth.
He slides his hands under my thighs and holds me open, mouth working like he’s starving for me. And then, when my back bows and a helpless whine cracks out of my throat, he stops.
Just enough to talk, to ruin me. “You know what I’m gonna do to you after playoffs, pup?”
I moan. I think I nod.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m gonna take you home after we win the Cup. Still in your gear. Still sweating and bruised and wrecked. I’m gonna make you drop to your knees in the hallway and suck my cock with that gold medal around your neck.”
“Fuck—”
“I’m gonna fuck you in our shower. In our bed. On our balcony if you keep mouthing off. And I’m gonna do it with my ring on your finger so everyone knows.”
My legs shake.
“You’re gonna wear it to every press conference. You’re gonna answer questions with my cum still inside you. You’re gonna smile and call me husband.”
“God—sir—I—”
“Not yet, baby,” he growls. “You don’t get to come yet.”
I sob—because it’s too much. The pressure, the filth, the promise of forever tangled in the way his tongue curls, in the way his voice drops, in the way his hands hold me like I’ve always belonged to him. Because I do. I’ve never been more his than I am right now, and I’ll do whatever it takes to deserve it.
My hands are shaking. I’m gasping through it, hips rocking in tiny, pathetic little movements that do nothing but make it worse. I want to sob, I want to scream, I want to claw his name into the walls, but all I can do is whimper.
Because he’s not letting me come.
