6. Dripping Lust Of Competitive Irony
6
DRIPPING LUST OF COMPETITIVE IRONY
~DAMIEN~
T he water is ice cold, its relentless streams cascading down my back in futile attempts to extinguish the heat coursing through me.
It had been my plan to let the chill numb me — to banish the fire clawing at my insides, burning and raging as Gwenivere’s moans pierced through the thin walls like haunting melodies.
But the cold does nothing.
If anything, it sharpens the edges of my need, leaving me raw, exposed, and maddeningly aware of her.
I’d been drawn to her even before the reveal.
As a “male,” there was something too captivating about the sharpness of his jawline, the subtleties of his features that softened in ways most didn’t. And then, after that insufferable display of dominance, I couldn’t stop replaying the fire in his eyes, the defiance that made my cock throb even as my instincts roared for control.
But this — this madness — was more than I could have predicted. Her cries and whimpers clawed their way under my skin, digging deep; deeper than any mortal sound ever had. They echoed through the cold silence of my chambers, each one a taunt, a reminder that she was in his arms, being claimed by him.
My hands clenched into fists, the force of my frustration cracking the tile beneath my feet.
Cassius.
Of all people, it was Cassius — the Duskwalker Prince, the embodiment of shadow and frost — who had taken her.
I’d told myself this was a test.
That this was all part of some elaborate ploy to evaluate her, to push her limits. Mortimer had spoken of the rarity of bonds between a Duskwalker and another, warning us of how they could ignite uncontrollable lust.
Lust so potent it could override centuries of restraint.
Perhaps this was merely that — a means for Cassius to tame the storm she’d unleashed upon us all.
But I knew better.
My instincts whispered truths I didn’t want to hear.
The bond mark.
Mortimer’s revelation had been like a blade to the gut. I’d seen it on her neck, faint but undeniable.
A Duskwalker’s bond mark, rare and ancient, a connection forged through magic so old it defied reason. Cassius, the unfeeling prince of shadows, had been pierced by it.
By her.
“Fuck,” I muttered, slamming my fist against the wall. The impact sent water spraying in all directions, but it did nothing to drown out the inferno consuming me.
Her moans came again, sharper this time, and my fangs ached at the sound. It wasn’t just lust anymore.
It was jealousy — pure, unrelenting jealousy that burned brighter with each second. I hated it. Hated how it clawed at me, how it twisted my insides until I felt like I’d explode.
How long had it been since I felt something like this? Since I allowed anyone to get under my skin this way? Centuries, perhaps. Longer still since someone dared to challenge me the way she did.
And yet, she wasn’t even thinking about me, was she?
Not as she cried out his name, not as her body arched for him, desperate and yielding.
“Damn you, Cassius,” I hissed, the words venomous even to my own ears.
I leaned my forehead against the cold tile, the water still cascading over me as I struggled to rein in the tempest within. The thought of her with him was like a poison, spreading through me with every passing second.
Nikolai and Mortimer had to feel it too, I was sure of it. None of us had expected this. None of us had anticipated the hold she’d have on us.
On him.
Cassius was supposed to be untouchable, emotionless, and incapable of forming attachments.
Yet here he was, fucking her with a passion that resonated through the very walls of this cursed academy. The bond mark could explain it, sure. Mortimer’s words echoed in my mind, a reminder of how such bonds could manifest as raw, primal desire. But the mark alone wasn’t enough to pierce through Cassius’s fortress of indifference.
No. There has to be more to this unprecedented circumstance.
Something neither he nor I could fully understand.
The bond was supposed to be rare. So rare that most Duskwalkers lived and died without ever encountering it. And now, here she was, a hybrid witch-vampire anomaly, bearing the mark that connected her to him.
Another moan tore through the silence, and I slammed my fist against the wall again, cracking the tile further.
My fangs elongated in response to the primal sound, my instincts screaming for blood, for release.
It was maddening.
I thought of her as I’d first seen her — disguised as a man, her cocky smirk and razor-sharp wit drawing my attention against my will. I’d wanted to break him then and there, to see how he’d bow beneath me, his defiance shattered and broken from my hands.
But now, the thought of him, or her , submitting to anyone else — to Cassius — was unbearable.
“Get out of my head,” I growled, the words directed at no one in particular.
But it was futile.
She was there, burned into my mind, a constant, unrelenting presence that I couldn’t escape.
His scent, his voice, the way his magic seemed to hum in perfect harmony with his every movement during our initial interaction and conflict—it was all-consuming.
The water continued to fall, cold and relentless.
I stayed there, motionless beneath the cascade, fighting to keep it together, and yet knowing deep down I couldn’t function with a clear head like this.
The ache throbbed painfully, relentless, unyielding. I couldn’t pretend it didn’t exist anymore. Not when the images began flooding my mind, unbidden and intoxicating.
The vision came to me as if it had always been waiting.
Him —stretched across the bed, vulnerable, an enigma laid bare. The contrast of his strength with that softness beneath the surface that he tried so hard to hide.
I could see it vividly, the way his body would move with an unspoken grace, the taut muscles of his chest flexing as he shifted beneath my gaze.
Every detail of his form called to me; the ridges of his abs, the strength in his thighs, the way his platinum blonde hair gleamed faintly in the dim light of my imagined room.
I let my hand trail down my stomach, slick with the cold water, as the ache in my cock grew unbearable.
My fingers wrapped around myself, stroking slowly as the scene in my mind unraveled further. I could see him standing there, at first confused by my sudden appearance but too captivated to move. His lips — soft, plush, and lightly parted in that telltale expression of surprise — would tremble slightly as his eyes traced the lines of my body.
Each stroke of my hand matched the deliberate pace of my thoughts.
I could picture myself stepping closer, still nude from the shower, my cock thick and throbbing as it jutted out before me. The air would be thick with tension, his breath quickening as I approached.
His gaze would drop, just for a moment, to the length of me, and I’d feel the corner of my mouth twitch in satisfaction. He’d see everything—the hunger in my eyes, the way my hand stroked myself with slow, deliberate movements, and he’d know exactly what I intended to do.
I groaned, the sound reverberating through the tiles, as my strokes grew firmer, more insistent.
In my mind, I reached out, one hand tangling in that silken hair of his—a unique shade of silver with hints of platinum blonde at the roots. It felt like liquid moonlight beneath my fingers, impossibly soft.
He’d stiffen at first, uncertain, but then I’d tilt his head back, forcing his gaze to meet mine.
My lips would crash against his, brutal and demanding, claiming him in a way that left no room for doubt. He’d gasp into my mouth, the sound muffled as I devoured him, my tongue sweeping past his lips to taste him fully.
His hair would twist between my fingers, anchoring him to me as I deepened the kiss, not caring if I bruised those perfect lips. No, I wanted them bruised. Wanted them swollen and tender from my touch, so he’d feel the lingering ache every time he moved his mouth.
“Fuck,” I hissed, my hand tightening around my shaft as I imagined the way he’d look at me after—his eyes wide, his chest heaving, his lips reddened and glistening. My pace quickened, the water doing little to temper the heat building within me.
In my mind, I’d push him down onto his knees, his body pliant beneath my touch but his expression still filled with that stubborn fire I found so damn irresistible.
I’d guide his mouth to my cock, my other hand still tangled in his hair, and I’d watch as he took me in, inch by agonizing inch. The heat of his mouth would be exquisite, his tongue working me with a skill that sent jolts of pleasure through me.
“Faster,” I’d growl, tugging sharply at his hair to force him to pick up the pace.
His hands would grip my thighs, nails digging into my skin as he worked to please me, his throat tightening around the head of my cock as I thrust into him. The image was almost too much to bear, and I groaned again, the sound guttural and raw.
My hand moved faster now, matching the desperate rhythm of my thoughts.
In my mind, I was relentless, driving into him with a force that left him gasping and struggling to keep up. His eyes would water slightly, but he’d never look away, that stubborn glint still shining through the haze of lust.
And gods, the sounds he’d make—soft, muffled moans that vibrated around me, sending waves of pleasure spiraling through my body.
I’d be on the verge of release, my body taut and trembling, when I’d finally let myself go. The thought of spilling into his mouth, of him swallowing every drop while that defiant gaze never wavered, sent me hurtling toward the edge.
“Fuck,” I groaned again, my voice echoing off the tiles as my strokes grew frantic.
The line between fantasy and reality blurred, and I let myself drown in the imagined sensation of his lips around me, his tongue tracing along my length as I came, hard and unrelenting.
The tension snapped, and I gasped, my body convulsing as my release surged through me.
My cum splattered against the tile wall, hot and thick, and I leaned heavily against the cool surface, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath.
In my mind, he was still there, his lips curved in a faint, knowing smile as he swallowed the last of me.
When I finally opened my eyes, the reality of the moment hit me like a cold slap. The mess on the wall was a stark reminder of just how far I’d let myself go, and a wave of frustration surged through me.
“Pathetic,” I muttered under my breath, shaking my head as I worked to wash away the evidence of my weakness.
The water cascaded over me once more, cleansing my skin but doing little to ease the lingering ache within me.
The craving only “he” can tame and relieve.
I’d given in to the need, but it wasn’t enough.
It would never be enough.
And that realization only made the fire burn hotter.