Soaked. Shaking. So fucking mine.
“No one’s going to save you from me,” I say low and brutal. “You think I forgot what it sounded like when you came for the first time because of me? You think I don’t hear it every night?”
Her breath catches like she remembers something — a flicker, a flash — but it’s gone before she can speak.
I don’t let her.
I drag my mouth down her chest, teeth grazing, tongue unforgiving. One hand grips her throat—not choking, just there. Claimed. The other presses harder between her legs, slow circles, edge play written in the rhythm.
“You think this is about fucking?” I mutter against her skin. “It’s not. It’s about memory. It’s about taking back every goddamn thing the priest tried to rip out of me. It’s about making sure you never forget who made you cum like this first.”
She moans, a sound torn from somewhere raw.
I slide my fingers deeper — slow, knuckle-deep, angled just right.
“Say my name,” I order.
She shudders, half a cry, half a curse.
“Say it like you used to.”
“Damien…”
“That’s not how you said it back then.”
I curl my fingers.
“Try again.”
Her back’s still pinned to the wall.
But she’s not fighting anymore.
She’s wrecked for me—just the way I like her. Legs trembling around my waist, mouth parted like she’s trying to form a sentence but forgot the alphabet. Hair stuck to her throat, the scent of her sweat and need soaked into my skin.
And still—I want more.
More than her moans.
More than her nails digging into my shoulders.
More than the way her body yields when I take and take and take.
I want the part of her that even she’s forgotten.
The piece the priest tried to steal.
The piece I bled for.
“Open wider,” I whisper, voice rough. “Don’t make me say it again.”
She does.
Good fucking girl.
I hook one arm under her knee and hike her higher, my other hand moving between us, not to tease—but to torment. I press two fingers where she’s soaked, then slide them up her stomach, leaving a trail of heat until I press them to her lips.
“Taste how sweet you are when you beg.”
