Chapter 10 #2
Damian pulls back slow. Smirking. That terrifying kind of smirk that starts small and knowing. The one that means consequences. The one that means I’m going to regret everything and beg for more anyway. “Well then,” he murmurs. “Let’s remind you why.”
Before I can blink, he grabs me by the wrist, spins me out of the doorway, and drags me across the apartment—silent and inevitable—like a man on a mission. I don’t even realize where we’re going until I see it.
The mirror—the long hallway one I’ve avoided ever since the first time he bent me over in front of it and made me watch—looms into view, and my knees buckle on instinct, memory and heat colliding all at once.
But he doesn’t stop or ask; he plants me there like I’m nothing but a living toy, his hand curling into my hair, firm and possessive, guiding me down. “Knees,” he says, low and lethal.
I drop.
The reflection is brutal. I see everything. Wild curls, swollen lips, flushed cheeks. The jacket still hanging off my shoulders like I’m trying to cosplay desperate. Which, I guess, I am.
Damian stands behind me like a demon in black, sleeves pushed up, mouth in a lazy curve of doom, one hand still fisted in my curls, the other unbuttoning his slacks.
I moan. I moan looking at it, looking at us.
He doesn’t let me look away for a second.
I’ve never hated and loved my own reflection so much.
Not until he turned it into proof. Proof that I belong to him.
Proof that I look better ruined. The moment my eyes flick down his fingers tighten in my hair, sharp and commanding, and jerk my head back up.
“Mirror, pup,” he growls, dark and electric. “You keep those eyes on yourself.”
I whimper, because this isn’t gentle. It’s not slow, not soft, or sweet.
This is discipline. This is punishment masquerading as reward.
This is Damian making damn sure I see what I look like wrecked—knees spread, lips parted, panting before he’s even touched me properly.
Jacket sliding off one shoulder, eyes glassy, mouth already open like a slut with something to prove.
And he knows it. He knows exactly what that reflection does to me.
He lets go of my hair long enough to trace a line down the back of my neck and undo his slacks.
I shudder, hands twitching in my lap—and then I feel him, thick and heavy against my lips. I gasp, instinctively try to glance down, but his hand is already back in my curls before I can even catch my breath.
“Mirror,” he says again, low and quiet, which is always so much worse. “Watch.”
And I do.
I part my lips and let him press in slow. He slides forward inch by inch, filling my mouth. And the whole time I’m forced to look. At the spit on my chin, the stretch of my lips, the way my throat bobs when I try to take him deeper.
“Good pup,” he murmurs, voice ragged. “Look at you. So fucking pretty like this.”
I moan around him.
He shudders. “Don’t stop,” he says. “Don’t fucking stop until I tell you to.”
I nod, hands fisting my own thighs, eyes wide and wet and glued to the boy in the mirror, this version of me that only exists under him.
His fingers fist my hair tight, tight enough to make my scalp ache, enough to remind me I’m his. Not a boy, not a player, not a rookie, just a mouth to fuck and a throat to ruin.
He holds me still, hand twisted deep in my curls, the other braced against the wall like he’s controlling the urge to shatter me.
Then he moves. Each thrust is a claim, a growled this is mine that sinks down my spine and curls in my gut like fire. My eyes stay locked on the mirror, tears streaking down my cheeks as I moan around him.
He watches too. Not just me, us, that reflection, that filthy, obscene, perfect reflection of Damian Kade fucking my mouth. “Mine,” he growls and thrust. “Mine,” he says again, rougher now, his grip in my hair flexing with every slow push of his hips.
My knees burn and my jaw aches as I choke around him, gagging once when he pushes too deep, but he doesn’t stop or apologize—he only tightens his grip and groans like I’ve ripped his soul clean out of his body.
“Good pup,” he rasps. “Look at that pretty mouth taking me. You see that? You see what you do to me?”
I nod. I try. I can’t speak—not with him buried so deep, not with my throat working so hard to breathe—but my eyes are wide and wet and locked on the mirror. And I swear that boy in the glass looks wrecked and beautiful and worshipped, owned so completely it shows in every line of him.
He pulls out right as I moan, a sharp tug to my hair and the wet pop of my mouth losing its anchor, and suddenly I’m left gasping on my knees, lips red, throat sore, aching for it.
I blink up at him, stunned and he’s smirking—of course he is. “Not yet,” Damian says, voice cruel and completely unfazed by the trembling mess at his feet. “You don’t get it until you ask properly.”
I whimper. “I was asking—”
“No, pup,” he interrupts, already backing away. “You were bratting.”
I scramble to my feet, dizzy, stumbling after him as he turns toward the bedroom like this is a stroll and I’m not seconds from collapsing from need. “Sir—fuck, please—I want to—”
“What do you want?” he asks without looking back, his voice casual and teasing. “Use your words, baby.”
I follow. Fast. Clutching the edges of the jacket still hanging from my shoulders, ruined and vibrating with every step. “I want to taste you again,” I pant. “I want to swallow you, sir, please.”
He opens the bedroom door and walks in.
I chase. “I need it—need you—you taste like mine, and I want it. I need to earn it, please, let me have it—”
He tosses the jacket off me this time and lets it drop to the floor.
I follow him to the bed like I don’t have bones anymore. “I’ll be good,” I beg, voice cracking. “I’ll say whatever you want, do whatever you want, just—please, let me finish you. Let me have you—”
He turns and grabs me by the throat hard enough to make me shut up with a whimper and look at him. Damian stares down at me like I’m prey already caught. “You want it that bad, pup?” he murmurs.
I nod, frantic, desperate and fucking starving.
“Then prove it,” he says. “On the bed. On your knees.”
Damian grabs the bottle of lube we keep on the nightstand and tosses it on the bed. “Open yourself up for me, baby.”
I blink at him, at the bottle, at the mirror visible in the hallway where I was on my knees less than a minute ago with spit still on my chin and my brain still dripping out of my ears. And then I look back at him. He’s not smirking anymore. That’s how I know I’m in trouble.
His voice is quiet, barely holding himself together, and that should scare me. It should make me hesitate. But all it does is make my fingers shake harder as I unscrew the cap.
I crawl onto the bed, scrambling to rid myself of my slacks and boxers.
Every movement feels loud. Exposed. Shameful in that perfect way he likes me best, knees apart, back arched, cheeks flushed.
I rest one hand on the mattress for balance, the other clutching the bottle so tight I almost drop it. The air in the room feels electric.
“Now, pup.” His voice hits.
I obey. Fingers slick, fumbling, I reach back between my thighs and bite down on a moan as I touch myself. I slide one finger in slow, back arching, mouth falling open on a whimper. It’s not enough. “F-fuck,”
“More,” Damian says, dark and even.
I nod, gasping as I add a second, curling them just right, dragging them out slow so he sees the way I shudder and moan. I look over my shoulder and he’s still fully dressed, standing there watching.
I want him to wreck me. Ruin me. I want his hands, his mouth, his weight.
But right now? He wants the show. So I give it to him.
I keep going. , keep fucking myself on my own fingers while kneeling on his bed like the slut he made.
I don’t stop. Not even when my thighs start to tremble.
“Sir,” I gasp, choking on the sound. And then I feel him.
The bed shifts. The air changes. He’s behind me now, close enough to breathe me in.
“Sir, please—please—I need you, I can’t—” I sob through clenched teeth, rocking back onto my fingers.
I feel feral.
I am feral. Every nerve is shot, skin flushed, chest heaving, thighs slick with sweat, and he still hasn’t touched me. Not really. Just his voice. Just those dark, cold eyes dragging across every inch of my shaking body while I wreck myself for him.
“If you come,” Damian says, low, calm, dangerous, “we stop, pup.”
My whole body twitches like he dumped ice water down my spine.
He steps closer, the floor creaking under his boots. “But I’m—” I pant, “I’m so close, I—”
“I didn’t ask if you were close,” he says, still perfectly still, still watching. “I said if you come, it’s over. No cock. No come. You go to bed hard and leaking.”
I whine, loud and ugly, burying my face in the sheets as my fingers curl inside me, trembling on the edge. He’s not even naked yet.
My vision blurs as I hear the first button of his shirt pop. Then the second. The rustle of fabric as he shrugs it off, slow and deliberate. The metallic clink of his belt undoing. I swear I feel the sound in my teeth. I don’t look. I can’t. If I see him like that, I’ll fucking shatter.
But then I do. Just a glance over my shoulder, watery-eyed and ruined—and he’s halfway bare, chest carved like a Greek statue, belt dangling from his hand like a leash.
He catches me looking. “Eyes front.”
I snap back so fast I almost give myself whiplash.
“Good boy,” he murmurs.
“Sir, please—please, let me come, let me have it, I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll take it so deep, I’ll do anything you say—”
“You already are doing everything I say, pup,” Damian says, stepping behind me now, finally, close enough that his breath brushes my neck. “So tell me—is that enough for you? Or do you want more?”
“I want everything,” I cry, knuckles white on the sheets, face hot with shame and want.