19. Roman
Roman
Damon’s lips trail down, each kiss and bite blurring the line between pain and pleasure until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. He drags his nails down my torso again, harder this time, and the sting makes me arch into him, a low groan slipping out before I can stop it.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with possession. “That’s what I want to hear.”
I hate how much I want this—how much I need it. But at this moment, I don’t have the strength to fight him or myself. It’s like Damon’s punishments are wired to my pleasure.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his green eyes trailing over my body like he’s committing every mark and bruise to memory. His gaze lingers on the dried blood at the corner of my mouth, and his cruel smirk returns.
“You’re a mess,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Letting some asshole beat the shit out of you like that.”
“Like you care,” I shoot back, my voice even despite the way my chest tightens at his words.
Damon’s eyes snap to mine, and I shiver at how fucking livid he looks. “You’re right. I don’t care about what happened in that bar.”
My stomach twists, but before I can say anything, he leans in close, his lips brushing against mine as he murmurs, “But I care about this. About you bleeding for someone else when I told you not to.”
I glare at him, but the heat in his voice makes my resolve crack. “I didn’t ask for your fucking permission.”
“You don’t need to,” he says simply, his thumb brushing over the bruise on my cheek and pushing against it. “Because I’ve decided you’re mine now. No one else gets to touch you, hurt you, or see you like this. You want pain, Hotshot? I’ll give you pain.”
I want to argue, to tell him he’s out of his goddamn mind, but then his mouth is everywhere—teeth, tongue, and lips all wreaking havoc on my skin in a way that feels more like possession than affection.
I groan, my body instinctively arching against him, but he doesn’t pull back. If anything, the bastard doubles down, his lips closing over the mark as his tongue flicks against it, soothing the sting just enough to make me shudder.
“Fuck,” I mutter through gritted teeth, my breath catching as his teeth graze over my nipple before he bites down, just hard enough to make me jerk. Pain flares, sharp and electric, but it’s swallowed by the pleasure that follows when his tongue flicks over the same spot, teasing and taunting me.
The fucker doesn’t let up. His tongue dips into the hollow of my navel, and my hips jerk up involuntarily. His hands pin me down immediately, his grip bruising as he forces me still.
“Stay fucking still,” he growls, the vibration of it against my skin sending a shiver through me. Every nerve is on fire, my breath coming in shallow gasps as he continues his descent.
When he finally reaches the waistband of my jeans, he doesn’t rush. He’s maddeningly slow, his fingers undoing the button, dragging the zipper down with deliberate care. His eyes flick up to meet mine, and the intensity in his gaze makes my stomach twist.
“Fucking sadist,” I mutter, my voice strained.
Damon doesn’t respond—he doesn’t have to. His smirk says it all as he hooks his fingers into my jeans and boxers, pulling them down just enough to free me. The cool air hits my cock, and I shudder, my hands fisting in the sheets beneath me.
He takes his time, his gaze dragging over me like he’s savoring the view, and it’s infuriating how exposed I feel under his scrutiny. But then his mouth is on me, and all coherent thought flies out the window.
I suck in a breath through gritted teeth, my head falling back against the mattress as he works his tongue over the head, easing back my foreskin with a slow, practiced flick before his mouth closes around me again. The suction is gentle at first, like he’s teasing, learning every twitch and flinch I give him.
I moan loudly and he hums around me, the vibration shooting straight through my gut, and the smug gleam in his eyes tells me he’s not even close to done. If anything, my reactions only spur him on. He takes me deeper, the wet slide of his mouth sending sparks shooting down my spine.
“Jesus fuck,” I mutter, my voice breaking as he moves faster, his lips sliding down my length in a rhythm that has my body tightening in anticipation.
It’s obscene how good he is at this. It’s not just the heat of his mouth—it’s the way he handles me, like I’m something he’s unwrapping, learning, owning.
My hips jerk before he pins them down again with an iron grip. “Keep still,” he mutters, lips brushing my skin as he pulls off just enough to speak. “You’re not gonna fuck my throat. I’m gonna take you apart piece by piece.”
I nearly lose it at that.
His eyes flick up to mine, dark and teasing, and I can see it in the smug curve of his mouth even as he sinks down again—he loves this. The mess he’s making of me. The control he’s got, without even needing to say a word.
He slides the foreskin back again with his lips, exposing the head and swirling his tongue around it slow, deliberate, and fucking filthy. The air stutters out of my lungs, my head falling back as I bite down on a moan. “God, Damon…”
He hums around me again, the vibration of it shooting right through my core. Then he goes lower, licking along the underside, tracing the vein all the way down, making me twitch against his tongue. He doesn’t miss a thing—he learns what makes me jerk, what makes me groan, and doubles down on it.
“Fuck, you’re—” I try, but my voice breaks on another moan as he pulls back, only to wrap his lips around me again and take me deeper this time. His tongue slides under the loosened skin, warm and slick, playing with the hypersensitive nerves like he’s been dreaming about doing this for years.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. All I know is Damon—his mouth, his tongue, the obscene wet sound of him sucking me down, slow and purposeful like he’s memorizing every damn inch.
And the worst part? He’s still holding back. Still teasing. Still fucking tasting. Like he’s not done collecting every sound I make.
Then his hand wraps around the base of my cock, stroking in time with his mouth, and the dual sensations are almost too much.
I’m shaking now, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he drags me closer to the edge. Every flick of his tongue, every scrape of his teeth, sends me spiraling further into the abyss. I’m not gonna last. Not with him like this—focused, hungry, fucking ruthless with how good his mouth feels. Not when every time he pulls back, he strokes my cock with his tongue like it’s a goddamn privilege to taste me.
And judging by the look in his eyes, that’s exactly what he thinks it is.
“Damon,” I gasp, my voice hoarse. “Please… Please, let me come.”
The vibration of his groan makes my toes curl, and his hand tightens just slightly, squeezing in a way that has me biting back a moan. “Fuck, fuck —” I’m a mess now, my hands flying to his hair, tangling in his curls as he takes me even deeper. “Damon, please… I need to fucking come. Please let me!”
The heat, the pressure, the sheer fucking insanity of how good he is at this—it’s all too much. My body tenses, my vision blurring as I teeter on the edge, and when his nails drag down my abs, the sharp sting is the final push I need.
I come hard, a broken moan tearing from my throat as I spill into his mouth. Damon doesn’t stop, his lips and tongue milking me for every last drop, his hands holding me steady as I shake beneath him.
When it’s over, I’m completely wrecked, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. Damon finally pulls back, his tongue flicking over his lips, and the sight of him—flushed, messy, and looking like the devil himself—sends a shiver through me.
“Fucking sadist,” I mutter again, my voice weak.
His smirk fades slowly, his green eyes softening in a way that catches me off guard. Then he crawls up my body with a surprising amount of care, his weight pressing me into the bed as his hands settle on either side of my head.
“You okay?” he asks, the words cutting through the haze like a blade.
I blink at him, caught between exhaustion and confusion. “What?”
He leans in closer, his forehead nearly brushing mine. “I’m asking if you’re okay, Roman.”
His hand cups my jaw, his thumb brushing lightly over my cheek where the bruises are already forming. He doesn’t say anything, but the tension in his face tells me he’s not just asking about the last forty or so minutes. He’s asking about all of it. I don’t know how to respond. I’m not used to anyone asking me that—at least not like this.
“Yeah,” I finally mutter, my voice rough. “I’m fine.”
He watches me for a moment longer, then leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead, the gesture so unexpected it leaves me stunned. He doesn’t linger, just pulls back and gets to his feet.
“Come on,” he says, holding out a hand.
I stare at it, then up at him. “Where are we going?”
“To the bathroom,” he says matter-of-factly. “You look like you just went ten rounds in a bar fight—which, by the way, you did—and I’m not letting you crash like this.”
I groan, letting my head fall back against the pillows. “I can handle it.”
“Clearly,” Damon deadpans, grabbing my wrist and pulling me up before I can argue.
“Jesus, Ward,” I grumble, stumbling as he drags me toward the bathroom. “You’re bossy as hell.”
“With you, someone has to be,” he shoots back, his tone light but his grip steady.
He flips the switch, and I get a look at the bathroom. The area is small but clean, with black tiles and soft lighting that bounces off the mirror, highlighting both of us in the reflection. I look wrecked—my face bruised, my lip split, and my hair a disaster. But Damon…
Damon looks like sin carved into flesh.
He pulls his shirt off first, tossing it aside, and I can’t help but stare. He’s built, lean but muscular, with broad shoulders and a defined chest that’s covered in ink. Black and gray tattoos swirl across his skin—band logos, a wolf, some Lovecraftian entity, various manga and anime characters, and random numbers.
My gaze drifts lower, tracing the lines of his abs and the deep V-cut of his hips. The happy trail of dark hair below his navel disappears into his waistband, and just above it, on the left side of his pelvis, is a black widow spider tattoo. It’s the size of my palm and detailed, legs curling over that V-line that disappears into a trail of trimmed curls, and for some reason, it’s fucking hypnotic.
“Take your pants off,” he says without looking at me.
“Buy me dinner first,” I mutter, but I comply, leaning against the counter as I toe off my shoes.
He doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he starts the shower, the sound of running water filling the space as steam begins to rise.
“You’re getting in with me?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “You’re a mess, and I always take care of my messes.”
I snort, but there’s no real bite to it. “Possessive as fuck.”
He smirks, shoving his jeans down before stepping into the shower. I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the way my gaze drags over him.
And fuck me, I want to look at his cock, but I don’t want to be a fucking perv when he’s looking after me.
I sigh, kicking off my pants and following him in. The hot water hits me like a fucking blessing, washing away the grime and blood and whatever the hell else is clinging to me. I lean against the wall, letting the spray soak into my hair as my body slowly starts to unwind.
Damon turns, his hands immediately finding my shoulders as he steers me under the spray. “Hold still,” he mutters, reaching for a washcloth and soap.
“Are you seriously—”
“Yes,” he cuts me off, lathering up the cloth before pressing it to my chest. “Now shut up and let me do this.”
I grumble under my breath but don’t resist, letting him work in silence. His hands are careful as he cleans the cuts and bruises on my chest and arms, his touch gentle. When he moves to my face, his fingers brush over my jaw and I flinch slightly.
“Relax,” he murmurs, tilting my chin up. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“Too late for that,” I mutter, but I let him clean the dried blood from my lip and nose.
Damon’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or anger. “I meant what I said earlier,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing over my jaw. “You’re not allowed to bleed for anyone else, Roman.”
I swallow hard, my chest tightening at the intensity in his voice. “Yeah, I got that.”
He doesn’t say anything else, he just finishes cleaning me up before stepping back to rinse the cloth.
When the shower is over, Damon hands me a towel and grabs one for himself, drying off quickly before leading me back into the main room. And I honestly didn’t get a chance to look at it properly because I was too busy being punished by Mr. Possessive over here.
The bed is big and inviting, the black sheets a stark contrast to the pale walls. Damon tosses me a clean pair of boxers, and I put them on without comment, the soft fabric a welcome change from my ruined clothes.
“Sit,” he orders, pointing to the bed.
I roll my eyes but obey, dropping onto the edge of the mattress as he rummages through a drawer. A moment later, he’s kneeling in front of me with a first aid kit, his fingers already working on a fresh bandage for the cut on my cheek.
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up,” he says, his tone softer now. “I said I’m taking care of you, Roman, so just let me.”
I bite back a retort, watching him as he works. His movements are precise, and the concentration on his face is… distracting.
The way his green eyes focus so intently on my face, the overhead light catching the faint flecks of gold in them. There’s a small scar just above his lip, that dimpled chin, and his jawline could cut glass. The slant of his eyes combined with those long lashes is borderline criminal.
God, he’s so fucking beautiful, it’s unfair.
How do I still not see Caleb when I look at him? They’re brothers, but… I don’t even feel Caleb in him. Those green eyes I used to think were so like his brother’s are completely different, too.
I’m still deep in thought when he moves on to my split lip next, his thumb brushing over it gently before he dabs at it with an antiseptic wipe. I hiss at the sting, and he glances up at me.
“Don’t be a baby,” the fucker smirks while he says this.
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter. “You’re not the one getting poked and prodded.”
His smirk widens, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he moves on to the bruises on my chest, his fingers brushing over the bite marks he left there. His expression shifts slightly, his smirk fading as his brows knit together.
“These are from me,” he says, his thumb tracing the edge of the mark he reopened.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice softer now.
Damon’s gaze flicks up to meet mine, and for a moment, it looks like he wants to say something else. But then he shakes his head and reaches for the antiseptic again, his movements slower this time.
“You’re a mess.”
I huff out a laugh. “You’re, like, fifty percent responsible for it.”
He glances up at me, and I catch the faintest hint of a smile before he looks back down, focusing on the bruise on my ribcage. His hands are warm against my skin, and despite the sting of the antiseptic, I can’t help but lean into his touch.
“You’re lucky I like you,” he says, his tone teasing but his touch impossibly gentle.
I grin, tilting my head to watch him as he works. “Like me, huh? That’s a big step for a guy who told me to fuck off only a few weeks ago.”
Damon snorts, shaking his head as he reaches for another bandage. “It’s called growth, Hotshot.”
We fall into a comfortable silence as he continues, his hands moving with practiced ease. He cleans the rest of the bruises and bite marks, and by the time he’s done, my body feels a little less like it’s been through a blender.
He stands and crosses his arms, looking down at me with an expression that’s equal parts exasperation and affection.
“Lie down,” he says, nodding toward the bed.
“What, you’re putting me to bed now?”
“Yes,” he says simply. “Because you need it, and I’m not letting you leave like this.”
I hesitate, but the exhaustion finally wins out. I crawl under the covers, the mattress sinking slightly as Damon sits on the edge. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” I murmur, but my eyes are already closing.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice softer now. “But so are you.”
The last thing I hear before sleep takes me is the sound of his voice, low and steady, grounding me in a way I didn’t know I needed.