Her eyes flick toward the door, toward the monitors, toward the feeds she knows I’ve been watching all night even if she can’t see them.
“Don’t look at them.” I grip her jaw harder. “Look at me.”
She does because the other one might be watching but I’m the one she can’t stop looking at and I’m not letting her go.
Not now.
Not ever.
Her thighs are warm where they part for me. I don’t tell her to open them. I don’t need to. Her body already knows what I want. The other one—he might be watching. He might be leaving gifts. He might know my name. But he doesn’t get to see this. He doesn’t get to see her like this. No one does. No one but me.
I drag her panties down slow, watching the fabric catch on her knees, the thin lace straining against her flushed skin before I pull them the rest of the way off and shove them into mypocket. I want to feel the damp heat of her against my own skin for the rest of the night.
She shivers when the air hits her pussy, when my thumb grazes where she’s softest, when I press down—just enough to make her gasp, just enough to make her bite her lip, just enough to remind her that I own this.
I own her.
Her thighs twitch when I stroke her, slow and cruel, like I have all the time in the world. I don’t. But I want to break her like I do. She tilts her hips up, chasing the friction, her body a live wire of need searching for a ground. I don’t let her have it. I pull my hand away, enjoying the sharp, wounded sound she makes.
Her breath catches. Her fists clench against the couch cushions, knuckles white as she tries to hold herself together while I’m tearing her apart.
“Damien,” she whispers, desperate, wrecked.
I sink to my knees in front of her. My hands slide up the inside of her thighs, rough palms, calloused fingertips, pressing bruises into her skin just from the weight of my grip. I want those marks to be there tomorrow—dark, thumb-shaped reminders of exactly who was holding her.
“Say it again,” I murmur, my lips brushing over her trembling thigh, the heat of her skin radiating against my face.
Her throat bobs. Her lashes flutter. Her voice is a broken thing when it comes out. “I’ll stay.”
My tongue traces the inside of her knee, slow, filthy, deliberate. I feel her legs try to close—I don’t let them. I grip her harder, forcing her open, dragging her wide for me until she’s completely exposed, her vulnerability laid bare.
“You’ll stay.” I kiss higher, closer to the heat. “You’ll obey.” My teeth graze her skin, a sharp, possessive nip. “You’ll cum when I tell you to.”
I look up at her from between her thighs. Her pupils blow wide, swallowing the colour of her eyes, her chest rising too fast, her lip caught between her teeth. “You won’t touch yourself when I’m gone.” I bite into her thigh. Hard. She yelps, a sharp, melodic sound that rings in my ears. I lick the mark, savouring the salt of her skin. “You’ll keep this sweet little pussy untouched until I say.”
She nods, frantic, trembling, desperate.
“Say it.”
“I—I won’t—” she gasps. “I won’t touch myself—” She’s already grinding against nothing, her hips moving in a mindless, rhythmic plea. Pathetic. Perfect.
My tongue drags through her slit, slow and heavy, savouring the taste of her, the way she’s already dripping for me. She jolts. Her hands fly to my hair, fingers tightening like she doesn’t know whether to pull me closer or push me away. I hum against her, the vibration dragging another moan from her lips, pinning her hips down when she tries to chase the pressure.
“Damien, please?—”
I shake my head against her. Pull back just enough to speak. “No. You don’t get to beg yet.”
She whines. Claws at me. I let her. But I don’t give her what she wants. Not yet. Not until she breaks. I flick my tongue against her clit—once. A cruel, perfect snap of sensation. She bucks, her heels digging into the couch. I pull away. I trace my finger through her dripping pussy and smear it across her lips.
“Open.”
She parts her lips instantly, her tongue darting out to taste herself on my finger.
Good girl.
I push my finger into her mouth and watch her suck it like she’s starving, her eyes watering as I press deep, asserting mydominance even there. I pull out and smear her spit and slick across her cheek, marking her like an animal.
“You taste how sweet you are?” I whisper. She nods. “You taste that little drip of desperation?”
