Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
Deimos carries me through the apartment like he’s taking a trophy.
His grip on me is possessive and absolute, chest warm against my back, his scent curling into the shape of him—smoke, spice, and something that tastes older than sin.
The door slams behind us and for a second the rest of the world is cut away.
Then he drops me onto the mattress. I bounce, breath hitching, propping myself on my elbows and looking up. He stands at the edge of the bed, shoulders rolling, golden skin glowing in the dim light.
His cock is still hard—or hard again, I’m not sure—but he doesn’t move to touch me yet. He just watches. He hunts.
I stretch out, like an offering. “You just going to stare, or are you going to do something?” I tease.
His mouth curls, eyes unreadable and dark. He reaches down and drags a fingertip along the inside of my ankle—featherlight, and it launches fire up my leg.
“Jealous?” I bait.
His eyes flash something close to amusement. “No.” Then his hand is on my ankle and he yanks me to the edge of the bed, legs swinging. I gasp and he chuckles low, kneeling in front of me.
“I don’t get jealous,” he murmurs. “But I do get possessive. And you’ve been acting out, Lustling,” he murmurs, his hands everywhere, palms sliding up my thighs, nails bright against sensitive skin.
He’s near me, not yet where I want him, and the tease is a slow, delicious cruelty.
"Flaunting yourself, playing your little games. "
“Deimos—”
“Shh.” He presses a finger softly to my lips, then trails it down my throat, over my chest and along my stomach. He avoids the place I want most with a willful deliberateness.
“You’re teasing me.” My voice comes out thick.
“You tease me all the time,” he answers, tracing lazy circles at my hips. “Seems only fair.”
His hand dips lower, parting me with the airy brush of fingers that do not yet dive in. Instinct arches me toward friction; he pulls away every time the ache crescendos.
“Please,” I beg.
He tilts his head, a slow predator’s question. “Please what?”
“Deimos—”
A slap lands, sharp and hot on the inside of my thigh. Pain and pleasure shoot straight to my core as I moan and his smile deepens. “Try again, Lustling.”
I swallow the last of my pride, hating how much I actually love it. “Please, Deimos. Touch me.”
A low approving rumble vibrates his chest. “Good girl.”
Then, finally—he gives me what I want. His fingers slide through my slick folds, teasing, exploring. My breath shudders out of me as he circles my clit, slow and deliberate.
"You're so wet," he murmurs, voice thick. "You really missed me, didn’t you?"
I moan, pressing against his hand. "Yes—fuck, yes—"
"Too bad."
I whimper as he pulls away again, leaving me aching, desperate.
Then, he shifts, pushing me further onto the bed and climbing over me, caging me in with his body. His cock presses against my entrance, thick and heavy, but he still doesn’t push inside. Instead, he leans down, dragging his tongue along the side of my throat, teeth grazing my pulse.
"I could take you right now," he breathes against my skin. "Bury myself inside you and fuck you until you can’t think straight."
My nails find his shoulders. “Then do it.”
He laughs, a dark sound that shakes the air between us. “You don’t get to order me around, Lustling.”
I snarl and lift my hips, grinding into him, trying to force his hand. Another stinging slap lands on my ass and the heat of it floods the place that wants him.
He smirks. “I think I like you like this.”
“Like what?” I snap.
“Needy,” he answers simply. The word is a verdict and a promise.
I growl, ready to argue.
Then he takes me. Not with crude urgency but with a single, brutal thrust that leaves me breathless—the movement of him into me a perfect, hard claim. The air knocks the breath out of me. “Fuck—” rips from my chest.
His hands close on my hips, anchoring me to the moment. “That’s it, baby. Take it,” he growls.
I wrap my legs around him, nails scoring his back as he begins to move. His rhythm builds—strong, deliberate, relentless—and each thrust takes me nearer some wonderful, terrible edge.
But it’s slow. Too slow.
“Faster,” I plead. “Harder.”
He answers by driving his cock deep into me and then holding me there. “Not yet,” he rasps, breath ragged. “Not until you remember who you belong to.”
I try to argue and the sound I make dissolves into a sob. “Deimos—”
“Say it,” he orders, his hand tightening around my throat possessively.
My voice is a broken thing when I answer. “I belong to you.”
His eyes flare and then he moves like a man released. The next wave is fierce and terrible, a storm in which I shatter and then mend again. His movements are deep and brutal.
My moans shred into screams, his name ripped from my throat again and again—prayer, curse, plea braided into one. I don’t care. I am his utterly, and tonight he will carve that fact into every part of me.