And maybe it’s the meds talking. Maybe it’s the adrenaline crash. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m still wearing his hoodie and he’s carrying me like I’m the most precious thing on the planet. But when I bury my face into his neck, I don’t say another word.
The door clicks shut behind us and Damian doesn’t bother flipping the lights on, leaving the room dim with spillover from the hallway, gold and low through the blackout curtains, enough to carve sharp edges into the sheets and outline his silhouette—broad shoulders, lethal calm, the soft thunk of his boots as he crosses the carpet. He doesn’t say a word as he carries me straight to the bed, his breathing even and measured while mine turns into a mess the second he sets me down.
I land soft on the mattress, spring-loaded and waiting, expecting instructions, but he doesn’t speak or order me around; he grips the hem of the hoodie and peels it slow, up and over my head. I shiver.
His hands follow, sliding up my chest and under the cotton as they drag the shirt with them, moving like he’s unwrapping something delicate—something breakable, something his. The shirt clears my face and cool air hits my skin as I blink up at him.
And then—click. My hands jerk as fabric tightens around my wrists, and it’s already too late when I gasp, “What the—Cap—?”
He’s already tying the ends of the hoodie sleeves to the headboard, fingers moving with the kind of knot he could tie in a blizzard with blood on his gloves—the kind you don’t get out of. My arms stretch overhead, pinned, and he looms over me with his face in shadow and his eyes burning.
“You’re injured,” he murmurs, low and unyielding. “You’re not moving tonight.”
My cock twitches like oh, we’re so fucked, and my mouth—because it’s never learned—grins. “Not even a little?” I ask, breathless. Sweet. Sugary venom on my tongue.
“Pup,” he warns.
I stretch against the binds. Slowly. Seductively. Ankles kicking the sheets, back arching just enough to show off every line he’s branded into me. “Maybe I like moving when I’m not supposed to,” I purr. “What’re you gonna do about it, Cap? Spank me into next week? Tie my legs too?”
His eyes flash. I know that look. That’s not anger; that’s promise. I barely get the last word out before he moves—one step back, one hand to my waistband. My eyes snap wide. “Wait—”
Too late.
He yanks my pants down in one practiced motion. Underwear comes with them. My gasp punches straight to the ceiling, bare and caught in the dark, cock twitching against my thigh, breath gone. My legs kick weakly in the sheets. “Cap—”
He ignores me. Just bends, slow and deliberate, and picks up the balled-up underwear from where they hit the floor.
The second I see it, that look in his eye, I realize what he’s doing. “Wait, wait—hold on—sir—”
His hand fists in my curls. My head yanks back, neck stretched. His other hand presses the fabric to my lips—damp and humiliating.
“Open,” he growls.
My eyes flare and I try—really try—to hold it together, but some awful sound still tears out of me, high and whimpering, because fuck, I know how I smell and how I taste and how wrecked I already am. And he knows it too and now he's gonna shove it right in my—
“Now, pup.”
I open. The underwear stuffs in, hot and thick. I gag instantly, cheeks blazing. The taste hits hard—sweat, precome and fabric—and I sob through my nose, arms straining in the binds. My whimper is muffled. My mouth is stuffed full, cock hard and aching, as I twist under him.
“You brat, I warned you,” he growls, circling the bed like a predator now. His hands run down my thigh, stopping just shy of my bruised knee. “But you can’t help yourself, can you?”
I shake my head, but I smile around the gag, which is a mistake.
His hand lands on my thigh. Hard enough to jolt my whole body against the binds. “Keep smiling, pup,” he murmurs, voice sweet. “I want to see how long that mouth keeps grinning when you’re drooling around your own cock stink.”
I moan as watches me squirm like he’s got all the time in the world. And I know this is punishment. But I’d sin again for it.
The lube clicks open I flinch. He’s kneeling between my thighs now, bottle in one hand, the other braced on my stomach. His eyes drag up the length of me—flushed chest, spit-slick cheeks. “Spread ’em.”
My thighs fly open so fast I hear the mattress creak. I groan into the gag. My own goddamn reflexes betray me, because yeah, I damn well spread like my life depends on it, no hesitation, no shame. Then I roll my eyes at myself.
The sound he makes is molten. Low and smug. “Good boy,” he rasps, dragging his palm up my inner thigh. “Look at you. Already dripping. Already open. You were made for this.”
I moan again, louder now, cock twitching against my stomach.
His hand finds my knee—careful with the sore one—and presses it down, opening me further. “Won the game. Took a hit like a goddamn soldier. And now you’re lying here gagged with your thighs spread like a perfect little fucktoy.”
My spine arches. My mouth stretches around the gag, and I try, fuck, I try, to say something. Anything. But it’s just noise.
