Chapter 10 Damien
DAMIEN
My hips snap forward again, harder this time, and Morgan’s cry echoes off the walls.
“You heard me, princess.” I lean closer, teeth grazing the shell of her ear. “I’m going to fill this sweet cunt until you’re dripping with me. Until there’s no doubt who you belong to.”
“Damien—”
“No.” I cut her off, punctuating the word with a brutal thrust that has her nails scraping against the carpet. “You don’t get to argue. You get to take what I give you.”
My fingers find her clit again, circling it while I pound into her. The sounds she makes—half protest, half plea—drive me wild. In the reflection, I watch her pupils dilate, watch the way her lips part on gasping breaths.
“Come on my cock, Morgan. Right fucking now.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” I increase the speed of my fingers. “Come while I breed this perfect pussy.”
The word breed makes her whole body tense.
For a second, I think she’ll safe word out, but then she’s clenching around me, her walls clamping down so tight I can barely move.
She screams my name, back arching, and the sight of her losing control—for me, because of me—tears something loose in my chest.
It’s savage, the way pleasure rips through me. Raw and violent and nothing like I’ve ever felt before. I bury myself as deep as I can go and let it take me under, my release flooding into her in hot pulses that seem endless.
“Mine,” I growl against the back of her neck, hips jerking with aftershocks. “All mine.”
When I finally pull out, I sit back on my heels, transfixed. My cum trickles from her opening, stark white against the warm caramel of her skin. The contrast is obscene. Beautiful.
I drag my thumb through the mess, gathering it, then push it back inside her.
“Every drop stays where I put it.”
Morgan trembles in my arms, aftershocks still rippling through her. I scoop her up like she weighs nothing, carrying her to the bed. She doesn’t protest, just rests her head against my chest, eyes already half-closed.
I pull back the sheets and lay her down, then slide in beside her.
Before she can drift off completely, I hook her leg over my hip and push back inside her. Still slick with our combined release, still tight enough to make my jaw clench.
“What are you...” Her voice is drowsy, confused. “What are you doing?”
“Keeping my cock where it belongs while you sleep.”
She blinks at me, those dark eyes hazy with exhaustion. For a moment, I think she’ll argue, but then her lids flutter closed and she just... accepts it. Her body relaxes around me, letting me stay buried deep while her breathing evens out.
The trust in that surrender twists something in my chest.
I know I’ve lost the plot. Breeding her like that when she’s not on birth control—it crosses every line I’ve ever drawn. Every step I take in my life is always calculated and purposeful. Nothing about tonight has been either.
But Morgan does things to my rational mind I don’t understand.
She makes me want to mark her permanently, to tie her to me in ways that can’t be undone. To keep her safe from everyone—including the parts of myself I usually control so carefully.
My hand finds her hip, thumb stroking idle circles against her skin. She shifts slightly in her sleep, and the movement sends a fresh wave of heat through me. I’m already hardening again inside her.
This is madness.
But as I watch her sleep, feel her warmth surrounding me, I can’t bring myself to care.
I wake to winter light filtering through the blinds, disoriented for half a second before reality settles. Morgan’s warm body is pressed against mine, one leg still hooked over my hip, even though my cock has slipped out during the night.
Her breathing is deep and even, and her face is relaxed in sleep. Without the anxiety that usually tightens her features, she looks younger. Vulnerable in a way that makes my chest constrict.
I extract myself carefully, easing her leg down and slipping out from beside her. She murmurs something unintelligible but doesn’t wake, just burrows deeper into the pillow.
The clock on my nightstand reads 8:03 AM. Work doesn’t start until two, which gives me hours to kill.
I pull on a pair of sweatpants and head to the kitchen, mind already cataloging what I have in the fridge. Not much—I don’t cook often. Eggs, some bacon that might still be good, bread that’s definitely stale.
It’ll have to do.
I crack eggs into a bowl, whisking them while the bacon sizzles in a pan. The domesticity of it feels foreign. I can’t remember the last time I cooked for someone else. Can’t remember wanting to.
But I want Morgan to wake up to something other than an empty bed and regret.
The eggs scramble easily, and I toast the bread. Nothing fancy, but it’s food. I arrange everything on a plate, grab a glass of orange juice, and balance it all on my forearms.
Morgan’s still asleep when I push the bedroom door open with my hip. Sunlight catches the curves of her body beneath my sheets, and for a moment, I just stand there, taking in the sight of her in my space.
Mine.
I set the plate on the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed, hand finding her shoulder.
“Wake up, princess.”
She stirs, eyes fluttering open. Confusion crosses her face first, then awareness of where she is—whose bed she’s in. I watch the memories flood back, see the flush creep up her neck.
“I made breakfast.” I gesture to the plate. “Nothing fancy, but you need to eat.”
Morgan pushes herself up, clutching the sheet to her chest like that’ll somehow preserve modesty after everything we did last night. Her hair’s a mess, lipstick long gone, and she’s never looked more beautiful.
“I don’t usually do this,” Morgan says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for the orange juice.
“Eat breakfast?”
“Wake up in a stranger’s bed.” She takes a sip, eyes fixed on the glass instead of me. “I don’t even know your last name.”
“Hale. Damien Hale.” I lean back against the headboard, watching her pick at the eggs. “And we’re not strangers anymore, princess.”
Her cheeks darken at the nickname. She takes a small bite of bacon, chewing slowly like she’s buying time to figure out what to say next.
"Do you like being an EMT? Is it what you expected after leaving the Navy?"
The question catches me off guard. Most people don’t ask—they just assume it’s about helping people, playing hero. Morgan’s eyes search my face, genuinely curious.
“Most days, yeah. The adrenaline rush is similar, just with better hours." I shrug, keeping my tone casual. "It's good knowing I'm still helping people, but I get to sleep in my own bed every night.”
“So you still save lives, just without the deployment stress.”
“Something like that.” I reach over, tucking another strand of hair behind her ear. “What about you? Always wanted to sell insurance?”
She laughs, the sound unexpected and bright. It transforms her whole face.
“God, no. I wanted to be an artist when I was a kid. Painter, maybe a sculptor.” Morgan sets down her fork, pulling her knees up to her chest. “But art doesn’t pay bills. Insurance is... predictable. Safe.”
“Safe is boring.”
“Safe is what I need.” The words come out sharper than she probably intended. She winces, takes another sip of juice. “I mean—”
“You don’t have to explain.” I run my thumb along her jaw, tilting her face toward mine. “But you don’t have to be safe with me either.”
Her breath catches. We just look at each other, and I can see the war playing out behind those dark eyes—fear battling with want, old wounds fighting against new possibilities.
“I live two states away from my family for a reason,” she finally says. “I rebuilt my entire life to get away from—” She stops herself. “This is too heavy for morning-after conversation.”
“Maybe I want heavy.”
Morgan shakes her head, pulling back. “This is ridiculous. I don’t even know you. We’ve met three times, and suddenly I’m spilling my entire life story?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She runs a hand through her hair, frustration bleeding into her voice. “Why are you so easy to talk to? It makes no sense.”
I pick up a piece of bacon from the plate, offering it to her. “Maybe you’re tired of keeping everything locked up.”
“Or maybe you’re just...” She trails off, taking the bacon from my fingers. “I don’t know what you are.”
“Charming?”
“Persistent.” Her lips quirk up at the corner. “And apparently a terrible cook. This bacon is burned.”
“You’re eating it anyway.”
“Because I’m starving.” She takes another bite, then points at me with the remaining piece. “And you’re deflecting. I asked about you, and somehow we ended up talking about me instead.”
“Strategic redirection. They teach it in the Navy.”
“I’m sure they do.” Morgan settles back against the pillows, plate balanced on her lap. “So what else did they teach you? Besides how to save lives and be annoyingly charming.”
“Annoyingly?”
“You know what you’re doing.” She waves her fork at me. “The whole princess thing, the voice, the—” She gestures vaguely at my chest. “—everything.”
I grab her wrist, stilling the fork mid-wave. “You like it.”
Her flush deepens, but she doesn’t pull away. “That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“I’m trying to have a normal conversation with you. Learn actual things. Like...” She pauses, thinking. “What’s your favorite color?”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m serious. Favorite color. Go.”
“Blue.” I release her wrist, amused despite myself. “Your turn.”
“Yellow. Like sunflowers.” She takes another bite of eggs. “Favorite food?”
“Anything I don’t have to cook myself.” I steal a piece of her toast. “Clearly.”
Morgan laughs again, that same bright sound from before. “Fair. I’m not much better. I survive mostly on takeout and whatever Basia forces me to eat.”
“The friend from the party?”
“And the self-defense class. She’s...” Morgan’s expression softens. “She’s good. Doesn’t let me hide away when that’s often all I want to do.”
“Sounds like someone I should thank.”
“You’re not meeting Basia.” Morgan shakes her head, lips curving into a smile. “She’d ask too many questions about where I spent the night.”
“What would you tell her?”
“That’s the problem.” She sets the plate aside, leaning closer. “I wouldn’t be able to lie to her about this. About you.”
I catch her chin between my fingers. “Good.”
“That’s not good. That’s dangerous.”
“Maybe you need a little danger in your life, princess.”
Her eyes drop to my mouth. “This is a bad idea.”
“Probably.” I close the distance between us, brushing my lips against hers. “Stop me if you want.”
She doesn’t.
The kiss starts soft, testing, but Morgan melts into it with a sigh that goes straight to my cock. Her fingers curl against my chest, nails dragging lightly over skin, and I deepen the kiss until she’s gasping.
When I pull back, her pupils are blown wide, lips swollen.
“You’re trouble,” she breathes.
“Says the woman in my bed wearing nothing but my sheets.” I trace her bottom lip with my thumb. “I think you like trouble more than you admit.”
“I think you’re incredibly cocky.”
“And you’re incredibly beautiful when you blush like that.”
Morgan groans, hiding her face against my shoulder. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.” I tilt her face up again, stealing another kiss. “Every single word.”
She shivers, and I feel that response like a physical touch. The way she reacts to me—open, unguarded, desperate for something she’s clearly been denying herself—it’s intoxicating.
I could watch her like this forever. Study every expression that crosses her face, catalog every sound she makes, learn exactly what it takes to break through that careful control she wraps around herself.
I’m in deeper than I’ve ever been with anyone.
The realization should concern me. It should send up red flags about how this complicates everything I’ve built, how easily Morgan could unravel my life.
But all I can think about is keeping her here. Making sure she comes back. Finding excuses to see her again and again until the idea of being apart becomes unbearable for both of us.
She has no idea how much I’ve already crossed the line. How I watched her through her bedroom window, followed her across state lines, orchestrated chances to be exactly where she needed me.
And she never will.