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He’s pulling me deeper, past the place where I usually stop. Past the edge where even I sometimes glance down and think okay, maybe that’s enough.

And instead of wanting to claw my way back toward normal, something inside me strains toward him.

Toward more.

Further. Deeper. Harder.

Show me your worst. Show me your deepest, darkest, most fucked-up crazy.

Show me how bad you are.

Show me how bad we can be together.

Slowly, as his fingers plunge in and out of my pussy and I whimper quietly, writhing on the bar stool as my tongue swirls around his coppery finger, a realization starts to hit me.

I don’t feel judged.

I don’t feel managed.

I don’t feel like a feral creature everyone tolerates because they love me.

I feel matched.

For once, I’m not the one standing furthest out to sea, looking back at everyone on the shore.

Damiano is already out there, waiting for me.

And God help me, all it makes me want to do is swim farther.

“Whatever this is, little nightmare,” he growls darkly into my ear, his breath ghosting over my neck as I moan and twist and start to shatter at the edges.

I gasp when his teeth graze my lobe, like he’s a feral animal who can barely stop himself from straight-up taking a fucking bite of me.

The savage, pitch-black, bloodthirsty crazy seeping out around the edges of his control, juxtaposed against the perfectly ironed shirts and the pristinely organized room, is what starts to push me over the edge.

This man who is always in control is utterly losing that control with me, and it breaks me into a million wild, jagged, beautiful little pieces.

“Whatever you think this is, or what we are, I need you to know this, and I need you never to forget it,” he rasps against the shell of my ear, his fingers still plunging wetly in and out of my pussy as my thighs clench, my nipples tighten, and my core knots into a white hot ball of fire. “If you ever go looking for another man, and if he puts one single fucking finger on you…”

He buries a third finger in my pussy and nips at my earlobe.

“I’ll cut his fucking heart out and eat it in front of you.”

Oh fuck.

Oh FUCK.

I’ll be honest: considering the depressingly underwhelming sexual partners I’ve had, I’ve become a bit of an expert at handling matters myself.

Manually, if you will.

I’m a bit of a virtuoso at this point.

Like, if there were medals for flicking the bean, I’d win gold.

But the sensation of Damiano utterly taking control of my body, his fingers buried in my clenching, spasming pussy while he fucks my mouth with his bloodied fingers destroys every smug assumption I’ve ever had about knowing my own body.

Because when I explode, it’s like nothing I have ever felt before.