Chapter 6
The morning sun leaks through the curtains, casting everything in lazy gold.
I’m curled up on Damian’s couch in his jersey—number twenty-seven hanging off one bare shoulder, the hem brushing halfway down my thighs, and absolutely nothing underneath.
Legs stretched, mug of coffee balanced on one knee, hair still wild and damp from the shower he made me take after last night’s reward session.
There’s bruises on my hips from his grip.
I keep touching them. Smirking like I didn’t spend twenty minutes on my knees begging for mercy and a ring.
They’re proof. Not just that he fucked me stupid.
But that I’m earning it. Earning him. Earning the number.
The promotion. The ring. Every mark means he saw me. Claimed me. Chose me again.
And the group chat?
Hollywood:
WHO THE FUCK PUT A PICTURE OF DAMIAN’S HAND UP YOUR JERSEY ON TWITTER
Me:
Why are you shouting, old man? Jealous?
Hollywood:
YOU WERE NAKED UNDER THAT
Me:
Technically I was naked under your mom too
Hollywood:
I HOPE HE BENCHES YOU PERMANENTLY
Me:
He didn’t bench me last night
Damian’s voice cuts through the kitchen. “Mercer.”
I blink, pause the replay, sip my coffee, and pretend to behave while he stands there with a spatula in hand, bare chest fully on display, gray sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips.
His hair is still damp, the scar carved clean across him, eyes sharp and watching me like he knows exactly what I'm doing.
I try not to melt. “What?” I blink up at him all innocent-like.
His eyebrow arches. “You chirping Cole again?”
“No,” I lie immediately as if his own phone hasn’t been vibrating for the past ten minutes with the group chat. We weren’t even being subtle.
He stalks closer. I immediately turn the volume back up and pretend to focus on the play.
From the corner of my eye, I see the way his jaw ticks. The way his eyes drag slow down my bare thighs, the jersey, the bruises he left like a brand. He says nothing. Just flips a pancake and mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “brat.”
God, I love this man.
He finishes making breakfast in complete, terrifying silence.
Not because he’s mad. No, this is worse.
This is calculating. He stacks the pancakes on a plate, drizzles syrup, grabs the coffee pot with his free hand and then walks straight over to me like a man with a plan and zero fucks left to give.
I blink up at him with what I hope is a charming grin.
He sets the plate down, sits beside me, reaches under the blanket with one hand to tug me across his lap.
“Sir—?”
“Quiet,” he mutters, and lifts the fork.
Oh. Oh fuck.
The first bite is hot and sweet, and I open my mouth like I’m trained for it, because I am. Because I would die to be hand-fed in nothing but his number and my bruises. I moan around the second bite. He smirks and I melt harder.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, brushing a drip of syrup off my bottom lip with his thumb. His other arm wraps around my waist, holding me tight to his chest.
“You’re gonna kill me,” I mumble around a bite of pancake.
“You’ll die full and marked,” he says.
God help me, I grin.
He feeds me another bite, slow, deliberate, fork brushing my lip and I open my mouth for it like a prince. Syrup hits my tongue, warm and sweet, and I hum around it, licking the edge of the fork as it slides out.
I can feel him under me—hard, hot and absolutely unbothered. Which is complete bullshit, because I’m in his lap, half-naked, fed like a pet, and every nerve in my body is a live wire. And he's smirking like I’m not currently soaking his sweatpants with pure, aching need.
So I grind down. Just once. Slow. A long, filthy drag of my hips over the growing length under me, enough to make my head tip back, my lashes flutter. The jersey rides higher. His hand on my waist tightens and I go still. Blink up at him with syrup-glossed lips and a very fake halo.
His eyes are molten. “You testing me, pup?”
“No, sir,” I purr, instantly.
“Try again.”
I bite my lip. Then do it again. The grind is shameless this time, slow and sweet, and I feel the growl that rips through his chest. He grabs my hip with one hand and holds me there, locked against the heat of him, while his other hand feeds me another bite.
“Open,” he says, dark and quiet.
I do. Because I’m nothing if not obedient when I’m this fucked out and fed.
“Keep acting up,” he mutters. “See if I don’t bend you over this couch and fuck the syrup right out of you.”
My hips jerk forward involuntarily. He doesn’t stop feeding me. He just strokes my side with one steady hand, rocks me slow against his cock with the other, and keeps feeding me like this is breakfast and not foreplay, like I’m not falling apart with every slow drag of his touch.
I’m going to die. Right here. On this couch. In his lap. Wearing his number. And the worst part? I don’t want to be saved.
I keep doing it, tiny, desperate rolls of my hips. My breath gets shakier, my bites messier. Syrup coats my lips, my thighs are slick with heat, and I can feel every inch of him under me, hard and steady, like he’s not the one about to lose control.
He’s still feeding me. Calm as anything, until he stops. His free hand drags slowly across the plate, two fingers dipping straight into the syrup. Thick and golden, it clings to him as he lifts them—my eyes locked the entire time. And then that hand disappears under the jersey.
I gasp, loud, startled when those two sticky fingers trace the inside of my thigh. “Sir—”
He keeps watching me like he’s measuring my every twitch. Syrup-slick fingers teasing higher, slow and obscene, until they find the crease where my thigh meets heat. I twitch. Whimper. Try to grind again, but his other hand clamps on my hip, holding me still. His mouth curves. “You hungry, pup?”
I nod, dizzy. Still full from breakfast but starving in all the wrong places.
He leans in, syrup in his voice. “Then beg.”
My breath punches out of me. "Please."
His fingers slide higher. A brush against where I’m hardest. And I break.
He dips his fingers again. Syrup drips thick and slow, glistening as it trails from his knuckles down toward his wrist. I watch with wide eyes.
My whole body wound tight with heat as he spreads the sweet mess between his fingers, slow and deliberate. “Lift up,” he says.
I do.
Without hesitation, I rise just enough, knees on either side of his thighs, the jersey sliding up my back, leaving me bare underneath and straddling him open. I cling tighter to his shoulders, forehead pressed to his temple, mouth already falling open with need.
He doesn't rush. One sticky finger traces between my cheeks, slow and syrup-slick, and I shudder, clinging closer. I can smell it, warm and sweet and obscene. My hips twitch forward, but his other arm tightens around my waist, pinning me in place as he pushes the first finger in.
“Sir—” I’m breathless. Rocking without moving. The syrup makes it hotter, filthier, like everything he touches turns to sin. His finger curls deep and slow, the sound sticky and obscene as he works me open.
“You’re shaking already,” he mutters into my neck. “Barely even touched you.”
I moan. Can’t stop myself.
His second finger pushes in beside the first, slow and deliberate, stretching me open. The syrup burns a little. Just enough. My knees dig into the couch. My whole body is trembling, rocking forward for more even though I can’t get more. Not unless he gives it.
“Good boy,” Damian growls, crooking his fingers just right. “Open for me. Sticky little pup.”
I whine. My cock’s leaking against his stomach. And I can’t stop clinging. His fingers slide deeper, fucking me open in his lap like I’m dessert and he’s still hungry. “More,” I whisper. “Please, sir—more—”
He kisses me then. Tongue dragging syrup from the corner of my mouth as he presses in with one more curl of his fingers. “Ride them,” he murmurs in my ear. “Come on, pup. Show me how hungry you are.”
My breath breaks apart in my throat, but I do it. I lift myself slightly, bracing on his shoulders, and then sink back down on his fingers, slow, trembling, so full it knocks a moan loose from deep in my chest.
“That’s it,” Damian growls, kissing the corner of my mouth as I start to move. “Good fucking boy.”
My thighs burn. My knees dig harder into the couch cushions as I fuck myself on his fingers.
The jersey clings to my back now, damp with sweat, riding high up my spine.
This is mine. This ache. This heat. This place in his lap, in his grip, in his life.
I was made for this. Made to take it, to beg for more, to come undone in his hands and still ask for the ring.
Every curl of his fingers hits just right. The burn makes my eyes water. My cock twitches between us, untouched and leaking, pressed tight to the hard lines of his stomach. And all I can do is hold on.
His other hand stays wrapped around my waist, steadying me, guiding me. His mouth brushes my jaw, my cheek, my neck—each kiss filthy and reverent. “Look at you,” he groans. “Taking it so well. So full of me already and still not satisfied.”
“I—Sir—” My voice is wrecked.
He pushes deeper. Twists. Crooks.
My whole body seizes up, toes curling, mouth dropping open around a scream I can’t hold back. I fall forward against him, shaking apart in his lap with nothing touching my cock. Just his fingers buried deep inside me and his voice in my ear.
“There you go,” he growls, holding me tight through it. “Come just like that. All over me. Just from my fingers.”
I whine. Gasp. My arms shake where they cling to his neck, my thighs twitch, and I go limp in his lap like he unplugged my spine.
We sit there for a second, tangled in sweat and syrup.
Then, very softly, presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth.
“Next time,” he whispers, “you’ll earn more than just my fingers.”
And I moan. “Can next time be now…?”