Smug bastard.
My fingers tremble with nerves as I pass the phone to him. He pockets it without looking, then crouches before me, close enough I smell his cologne more clearly than the decaying shed. He runs his knuckles along the cheek, and his touch is impossibly gentle.
“On your knees,” Damien orders as he stands, and a jolt of pleasure zips through me. Fragments of Saturday reawakened by his commanding voice.
I bend forward, testing the ground with my palm. “Yeah. I don’t think so.”
“Oh, are you too delicate for concrete?” Despite the teasing lilt, he strips off his blazer and lays it on the ground. “There you go.” Pressure on my shoulders until I comply.
He steals the glasses from my face, tucking them into his breast pocket. “Let’s just keep these away from the firing line.”
I sit back on my heels, wincing up at him, the sun right behind his head. There’s a pull in my stomach as I guess where this is going, then he surprises me, dangling a pair of handcuffs from his finger.
“Arms behind your back, wrists together.”
They’re plain metal, not padded, and look suspiciously like… “Are those real?”
“Real as in they exist in the world? Sure.”
“I mean—”
“I know what you mean, and no, I didn’t steal them from police.” He arches his eyebrows, and a flicker of heat curls inside.
“Can I have them in front?” I put my wrists together, tilting my head and feeling a plastic edge against my jaw where the device is secured. “I want to touch you.”
Satisfaction curls his lips, and he nods. He clicks the first cuff around my wrist, and feels inside with his finger, making sure there’s room before fixing the second. “Nice and secure.”
His hand cups my cheek, warmth pulsing from it and travelling down to ignite a matching throb in my stomach, then lower, my centre already growing wet.
A reaction I half wish was faked for the recording… but isn’t false at all.
“Ooh, this is a nice shade for your cheeks.” The tease is back in his voice, and the shed heats ten degrees as I lean into his touch. “Think I’ll call this one… desperation.”
“Desperate to get up from this cement.”
His lips are against my ear now, gently vibrating. “You might want to rethink that attitude, or you won’t get your present.”
My face is pulsing with heat, now, and god knows what range it’s hitting on his fictional colour chart. Damien stands again, throwing me into shade, the sunlight a painful halo around his curly hair.
The shadows make his face hard to read, but I easily hear him pull down his zipper, tooth by tooth until my shoulders are rigid.
“Open your mouth.”
I press my lips together, feeling another pulse in my core as he laughs, hand closing around my chin, thumb rubbing along my lips, the pressure growing with each sweep until he pushes inside, my jaw yielding.
The salty tang of his skin makes my mouth flood with saliva, and the rhythmic push and retreat motion soon has me sucking his thumb, tongue eager for every taste.
“The worse you behave, the harder you’ll make it for yourself,” he warns, but it doesn’t temper my attitude, instead firing me up until I wrench my chin free of his clutching fingers, thumb coming free with a pop.
He taps the top of my head. “Naughty brat.”
Then his thick fingers splay around my skull, stronger than steel as he pulls me close, forcing his thumb back inside my mouth until the strain makes me open for him, the silken tip of his cock following, surging inside until it bumps against the back of my throat.
“Good girls decide how much they take,” he informs me, clicking his tongue as I struggle to withdraw. “Bad girls take what they’re given.”
His hand is immoveable, relentlessly holding me in place as he briefly withdraws, then pushes even deeper inside my mouth—inside mythroat—hairs tickling my nose as his thick cock chokes me, saliva gushing until it spills from my lips, dripping down my chin, no room to swallow.
I stare up at him, watching his eyes narrow with pleasure. The puff of his lips, tongue snaking out to lick them.
