“They can watch,” he says, “but they’ll never have you.”
His grip tightens. His pulse is a war drum under my palm. “You want them to watch?” he murmurs. “Want to show them how good you beg for me? How pretty you look when you cry?”
I shake my head. Too fast. But I’m already pressing my thighs together. His laugh cuts through me, dark and sharp.
“You do. You want them to see what they’ll never fucking touch.”
His teeth scrape my shoulder. His hand drags between my thighs, pressing through the thin fabric like he knows I’m soaked already.
“You want them to see how fucking owned you are.”
I whimper. I can’t hide it. His fingers curl under the waistband of my shorts, dragging them down to my knees, slow and cruel.
“You want them to know,” he whispers, “that you’ll never run. That you’ll always come back to me. That you’d starve for me. That you’d beg me to cage you again.”
Tears burn the backs of my eyes. Because he’s right. I want that. I want him to keep me so tight I can’t breathe without him. I want to forget how to exist outside of his hands.
His touch drags through me, slow and possessive. “You’ll stay,” he breathes.
I nod, gasping as his fingers slide deeper, curling inside me. “I’ll stay,” I choke out.
“Louder.”
“I’ll stay.”
“You’ll cum when I tell you to.”
“Yes.”
“You won’t cum without me.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll beg for me.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll thank me for caging you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
His thumb circles my clit, sharp and deliberate. “Again.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For caging me,” I sob, tears slipping down my cheeks, my body shaking in his grip.
“That’s my good girl.”
His hand grips my throat, squeezing just enough to make the edges of my vision blur. “I’m going to make you cum so hard you forget your own name.” His breath ghosts over my ear. “But you’ll never forget mine.”
His pace quickens. The air thickens. The weight of him, the scent of him, the bite of his words—all of it wraps around me like another lock, another chain, another silk-thread noose I’d gladly sink into. Because there’s nowhere else I want to be. Not when his hands are on me. Not when his voice is carving me hollow. Not when I’m already his.
The second stalker can watch. He can leave his notes. He can send his gifts. But he’ll never taste me like Damien does. He’ll never break me the way Damien can. And I’ll make sure he knows it.
His grip on my throat tightens until my pulse hammers against his palm, my breaths fracturing into sharp, pitiful gasps. I can’t get enough air. I don’t want to. I want to drown here. I want to sink inside this pressure. Inside him. Inside the cage.
