Watching her break open under the right kind of pain…
God, it did something dangerous to me.
One day—if she asked, if she begged—I’d take her there.
A paddle.
A flogger.
But the whip…
I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, she’d crave the whip.
The crack. The sting.
The way she’d gasp right before pleasure swallowed the pain.
She’d crave it.
Just as much as I craved her screams.
One day she’d wear bruises and welts like trophies—symbols of strength, surrender, trust.
But not tonight.
Tonight wasn’t for the edge.
Tonight was for worship.
For the small cries that already had me trembling.
I slid lower, dragging my tongue down her stomach, lingering at every spot that made her gasp. Her skin shivered beneath every pass, her body arching toward my mouth.
I grabbed handfuls of her hips, her waist, her thighs—claiming my way downward.
She quivered beneath me, legs trembling, trying to close around me.
But nothing could stop me.
Not from seeing her.
Not from wanting her.
Not from worshipping the sight of her—open and glistening for me.
My mouth watered.
I needed her taste again—needed it the way a drowning man needs air.
A drug I would never quit.
I slid my tongue through her folds, her moans hitting me like a rush I’d never recover from. “You taste so fucking good,” I growled against her clit, letting my voice warm the sensitive bud.
“Damien—” She gasped, voice cracking beautifully.
I traced lazy circles around her clit, carving out the letters to all the words she wasn’t ready to hear. A private devotion.
My fingers twitched with the urge to join my mouth, to feel her grip around me. When her hips lifted, I let one slide inside her—slow and reverent, sinking into her heat with a slowness that nearly made me lose my sanity.
