Chapter 19 - Elias #2
I’m leaning across the table now, grinning wide, waiting for him to snap. To bark. To drag me back by the scruff of my neck and shut me up the way he always does.
But he doesn’t.
Damian chews his last bite of toast, wipes his thumb across the scar at his lip, and finally lifts his eyes to mine. Calm. Steady. Too steady.
“Keep chirping, pup,” he says. “All it means is you’ll still be on your knees when the rest of the team’s already in the showers.”
The words cut clean. No growl, no snarl, no smirk—just fact.
My grin collapses into a wrecked half-smile, my face burning so much it’s embarrassing. My fork clatters against the plate.
I should taunt back. I should. That’s the game. That’s what I do.
But the second those words land—knees, showers, me left behind—I can’t find a single one. My whole body shivers, pulse roaring in my throat, and all I manage is a strangled little laugh that sounds way too close to a whimper.
The scrape of plates, the hiss of water in the sink, the soft clink of cutlery—normal kitchen sounds. Normal morning. I’m half-slouched in the chair, still twitching with leftover adrenaline, telling myself breakfast is over and maybe, maybe, I survived.
Then he turns.
His eyes burning with something I don’t recognize until he’s in front of me. His hands slide down, heavy on my thighs. The weight alone makes my breath catch.
And then—he parts them.
Slow. Firm. Like he was always meant to stand there, fitting between me while I sink helpless into the chair. My breath hitches so loud I swear the walls hear it.
His palms drag higher, up my hips, over my ribs, pressing heat into my skin until both his hands are tangled in my curls. He fists hard, yanking my head back, exposing my throat, my chest arching without permission.
And then—his mouth. Right against mine. Close enough to steal the air before I can breathe it.
“I’m going to drill you so hard for all that chirping, pup,” he murmurs, low, lethal, wrecking me with every word. “You’re going to faint all over again.”
My whimper’s instant. Shameless. My whole body jerks, thighs clamping around him. My lips part under the weight of his breath, my pulse hammering against the cage of his hand in my curls.
The promise is still on his lips when his mouth crashes down on mine.
No warning. No hesitation. Just steel and fire and the kind of kiss that feels like punishment. My gasp never makes it out—he swallows it whole, teeth scraping, tongue forcing me open like he owns the inside of me, too.
I moan. Loud. Shameless.
The chair scrapes under me when he grinds forward, pinning me in place. My thighs clamp around his hips, my hands fly uselessly to his chest, but it’s not to push him away—it’s to hold on. Because I’m drowning. Again.
His fist in my hair yanks, tipping me back, baring my throat even as his mouth drags lower, biting down hard enough to bruise. I cry out, nails digging into his shirt, my cock straining against thin fabric because holy fuck—this is breakfast?
“Cap—sir—fuck—” The words break between gasps, between moans.
“Quiet,” he growls against my jaw, grinding into me rougher. The chair creaks, and I’m pretty sure I’d let him ruin the furniture if it meant he didn’t stop.
My chest arches, my thighs squeeze tighter, my body wrecked under the weight of him—but my grin still claws its way out, reckless and cracked. “This—this your idea of team bonding?”
He bites my throat for that. My cry echoes in the kitchen, my hips jerking helplessly against his.
And then his lips drag back up to mine, kissing me filthy, relentless, until I’m gasping into his mouth.
I’m gone. Completely gone.
His mouth leaves mine, just an inch, just enough to make me whine into the space between us. My chest heaves, my lips bruised, my thighs trembling around his hips.
The smirk that cuts across his scar is lethal.
“Do you want the rest of that?” he murmurs, his breath brushing my lips like temptation.
“Yes, sir,” I rasp, too fast, too desperate, nodding before the word’s even finished.
His knuckles drag slow up my throat, pressing just enough to feel the stutter of my pulse. My whole body jerks with it, my breath catching sharp as his stare pins me to the chair.
“Then get dressed,” Damian says, calm, final, a blade wrapped in velvet. “And get your pretty little ass to practice. You’ll give me everything you’ve got on that ice, pup.”
His lips brush my ear, low and rough, sealing it like a vow.
“Then I’ll give you the rest of that.”
My thighs squeeze tighter around him, my curls fall into my eyes, and all I can do is nod—wrecked, buzzing, desperate—because holy fuck I’ll bleed myself out on the ice if it means he keeps that promise.
And then—he lets me go.
The absence is brutal. My body slumps back into the chair, chest heaving, throat raw, while Damian just straightens, calm as if he didn’t just wreck me with a single threat.
“Eat the rest of your toast,” he says, smirk curling as he grabs his jacket.
The toast is gone in two bites—shoved down—and then I’m bolting for the bathroom.
Yesterday’s clothes, wrinkled and damp from the mess we made, get yanked back on.
My hair is still wild, my lips still bruised, and I know Cole’s going to take one look at me in the locker room and never shut the fuck up.
Fine. Let him.
By the time I shuffle back out, tugging at my shirt, Damian’s already dressed. Black on black. Jacket zipped, hair tied, hands steady. He looks like he never once touched me, never once bent me until I broke. And then he looks at me.
I reach for my jacket, already bracing against the cold waiting outside, when his hand cuts me off.
“Put it back.”
I blink. “Sir… it’s freezing out.” My voice cracks into a whine before I can stop it, the pout spilling across my face.
And then—he moves.
One of his old jackets, the ones hanging heavy on the hooks by the door, the ones I shoved my face into like a deranged fanboy not even an hour ago—he takes it. Worn leather, frayed edges, crimson patch faded with years.
And he wraps it around my shoulders.
Not hands me. Wraps it. Big hands sliding down my arms, pulling it snug, collar tugged high around my throat like he’s shielding me from the cold. Like I’m his.
I don’t even realize I’m shaking until he plucks my own jacket clean out of my hands, hangs it up in place of his old one. The swap is final, unarguable.
My cock twitches. Honest to God twitches. I almost come in my pants from nothing but fabric and the weight of his hands at my shoulders.
He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t explain. Just says, calm and final:
“You wear me now.”
I whimper. Loud. Shameless.