Chapter 12 #2
He bites—not hard, but enough—and I choke on the sound that escapes me.
“After playoffs,” he growls, licking over the sting like he didn’t just wreck me with a single sentence. “Win me that Cup, baby. Then you can wear me.”
My hands curl in the sheets, legs shaking as his mouth stays maddeningly high, his voice dropping too low to survive, and the ring I was tearing the apartment apart for becomes a distant blur—burned away by the searing, slick pressure of his mouth moving higher, higher, higher—
And then he finally tastes me—and my brain goes completely, blindingly blank.
His mouth is relentless as it sinks down on my length, hot and slow and devastating, and I’m unraveling in real time, every inch he touches setting fire to my skin.
Every flick of his tongue, every suck of his lips, every low groan that vibrates around me carves a new kind of torture, and I’m already panting, thighs trembling, hands fisting the sheets like they’ll keep me grounded.
But there’s no point—he owns the air, the light, the gravity holding my spine to this earth.
He slides his hands under my thighs and holds me open, mouth working like he’s starving for me. And then, when my back bows and a helpless whine cracks out of my throat, he stops.
Just enough to talk, to ruin me. “You know what I’m gonna do to you after playoffs, pup?”
I moan. I think I nod.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m gonna take you home after we win the Cup. Still in your gear. Still sweating and bruised and wrecked. I’m gonna make you drop to your knees in the hallway and suck my cock with that gold medal around your neck.”
“Fuck—”
“I’m gonna fuck you in our shower. In our bed. On our balcony if you keep mouthing off. And I’m gonna do it with my ring on your finger so everyone knows.”
My legs shake.
“You’re gonna wear it to every press conference. You’re gonna answer questions with my cum still inside you. You’re gonna smile and call me husband.”
“God—sir—I—”
“Not yet, baby,” he growls. “You don’t get to come yet.”
I sob—because it’s too much. The pressure, the filth, the promise of forever tangled in the way his tongue curls, in the way his voice drops, in the way his hands hold me like I’ve always belonged to him.
Because I do. I’ve never been more his than I am right now, and I’ll do whatever it takes to deserve it.
My hands are shaking. I’m gasping through it, hips rocking in tiny, pathetic little movements that do nothing but make it worse. I want to sob, I want to scream, I want to claw his name into the walls, but all I can do is whimper.
Because he’s not letting me come.
Not yet.
His mouth is back on me, devouring. His tongue flicks over the head just right and my whole spine bows off the mattress. I choke on a moan that sounds like please, but he grips my thighs harder and keeps going like he’s got all the time in the world and I’m the only thing on the menu.
“Sir—”
Nothing. Just his mouth. His tongue. His growl as he drags me closer to the edge again, again, again, and pulls back enough to make me crazy.
Tears burn behind my eyes. My thighs twitch. I can’t think, can’t function because I’m so close and he’s still not letting me…
It breaks out of me. A wrecked, raw, ugly sob. I shove my fist in my mouth to try and stop it but I can’t, I’m crying now. Fucked-out and sobbing on the bed, shaking like a leaf, begging silently with my whole body.
And that’s what finally does it.
He lifts his head, eyes catching mine—dark, wild, and so damn smug. He sees the tear slip down my cheek and something snaps in him.
“Oh, baby,” he growls, almost gentle. “You crying for me?”
I nod. Hard. Fast. Fucking desperate.
“You want to come, pup?”
“Please,” I gasp. “Sir—please, I need—please—”
His mouth’s back on me before I can even finish the thought, and this time he doesn’t stop—he groans like he’s drinking me, like the taste is wrecking him as much as it’s wrecking me.
His hands keep me pinned, tight and trembling, while he sucks me down hard, obscene, his lips dragging over every inch like he’s claiming it.
And I break. My body shatters—fireworks behind my eyes, stars bursting in my chest, every muscle locking as I scream his name and come so hard I black out for a second
When I come back, I’m panting, sobbing, shuddering on the sheets.
He kisses my hip, my thigh, my stomach—soft kisses that make it worse. “I’m gonna make you cry like that every night once you wear my name,” he whispers.
I think I die.
Damian crawls up over me, all heat and muscle and filth still glistening on his mouth. His body settles heavy against mine, his hand slides up my ribs, and his mouth claims mine again, rough and deep, tongue tasting me like he’s not done, like he’ll never be done.
I whimper into the kiss, already twitching, already aching again. His hips press me down into the mattress, his mouth is devouring me, and I’m stupid enough to think he might go another round.
Then he breaks the kiss, smirking cruelly, and leans in to growl right against my ear, “Now get packing.”
I howl. “Nooo,” I groan, dragging my hands down my face. “You monster. You sadist. You just ruined me and now you’re sending me to fold socks??”
He laughs.
Laughs. The sound is low and smug and filthy, and it makes me want to smack him and blow him again in the same breath.
“Bags packed in fifteen, or I’m making you sit on the plane without underwear,” he adds.
I glare at him. “Joke’s on you. I wasn’t gonna wear any anyway.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Ten minutes, then.”
I groan louder, roll off the bed with my legs shaking, and stumble toward the closet, swearing under my breath about evil captains and playoff blue balls and how I’m still gonna find that ring if it kills me.