The screams slide out of my throat and he presses his lips to my face kissing every inch of skin he can find while his cock thrust deeper massaging that sweet spot that makes me scream, clenching around his cock. “Fuck, that’s it, cum all over my cock.” He breathes against my skin.
He rocks me through the first wave of pleasure my body trembling as I feel a gush of desire slide out of my body, my body trying to bend but fucking stuck tight against him.
His hands move to my throat. “Fuck. You fucking soaked me.” He gasps, adding pressure to my throat, thrusting so fucking hard and deep the pleasure erupts inside of me, my bodyis still trembling when I hear him roar against my skin feeling the hot sticky desire flow out of him.
“Fuck, Raven, I fucking love you.” My eyes widen. “If you don’t know what’s real—know this. I love you, I’ve always loved you.” He looks at me softly, “It was always you, baby.”
I don’t realise I’m crying at first.
There’s no sound to it. No sob. Just heat sliding down my temples, dampening the pillow beneath my head. My body is still pinned, still humming, still trembling with the aftershock of being taken so completely I can’t tell where I end and Damien begins.
He hasn’t moved.
That’s what scares me.
His weight is still there, heavy and deliberate, his forearm braced beside my head, his other hand wrapped around my throat. Not choking. Not squeezing. Just there. A reminder. A claim. Like he hasn’t finished deciding what to do with me yet.
I swallow.
It hurts.
My throat feels raw. Used. Like every word I never said has been dragged out of me in gasps instead. I can still feel him inside me — not physically, but deeper than that. Like he rewired something. Like the shape of him is carved into places I didn’t know existed.
He tilts his head, watching me like I’m something locked that he finally broke open.
“There you are,” he murmurs.
My breath stutters.
I hate that two words undo me more than everything else he’s done.
“I lost you for a second.” His thumb brushes beneath my eye, catching one of the tears. He studies it on his skin like it fascinates him. “Where did you go?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because if I tell him the truth — if I tell him I went somewhere small and white and familiar, somewhere with walls that watched and hands that pretended to be holy — he’ll burn the world again. And I don’t know if I can survive watching him do that.
So I lie.
“I’m here.”
His gaze sharpens instantly. “No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”
His hand leaves my throat and slides down my chest, over my ribs, my stomach — pressing just hard enough to make me flinch.
“There’s a part of you,” he continues, voice calm, almost gentle, “that still thinks you can disappear from me. That if you go quiet enough, if you go somewhere I can’t reach, you’ll be safe.”
My pulse jumps violently.
He smiles.
“I don’t share.”
My legs are weak. I know because when he shifts his weight and pulls back just enough for air to rush in, my thighs shake uncontrollably, like my body is panicking without his restraint.
He straightens slowly, deliberately, giving me time to feel the loss of his heat. His hands don’t leave me though. They trail up my legs, grounding me, owning me, keeping me right here in the present where he can see me.
