Chapter 1 #2
I make a sound I cannot defend—something wounded and wrecked, halfway between a porn star and a dying espresso machine—and the concierge coughs sharply like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t hear it.
A key card is offered a second later, fast and professional and very pointedly not accompanied by eye contact.
Damian takes it with a brief nod and a thank-you so cold and clipped it could qualify as a crime in several countries.
Then we’re moving again, luggage clattering behind me as I drag it along, my hand still tingling where he held it, Damian’s palm warm and steady at my lower back like he’s guiding me through enemy territory.
I’m vibrating the entire way—jealousy still buzzing under my skin, anticipation coiled tight in my chest, and the absolute certainty that the second we get to that room, I am not leaving it for days.
The suite is rich-people obscene. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the ocean like it was staged there on purpose, blue and endless beyond the glass.
The bed is massive, big enough to host a team meeting and still have room for bad decisions, and the private plunge pool glistens just outside on the stone deck like it knows exactly what it’s about to witness.
There’s a bowl of mangoes on the counter that probably cost more than my first car, arranged like art instead of fruit.
And Damian doesn’t even look at any of it. Doesn’t glance at the view. Doesn’t acknowledge the infinity tub carved into the floor like a pagan altar to sin. Doesn’t even blink at the giant welcome display on the bed with towels folded into swans and champagne already chilling on ice.
He walks in like he owns the entire damn resort, steps over the threshold with that silent predator grace he always has, and then—stops, turns and goes straight for the Cole bag.
I freeze mid-step. Still clutching the straps of the duffel and trying not to drop the cane or knock over a decorative vase shaped like a flamingo fucking a pineapple. “Baby, wait—”
He doesn’t wait. He reaches into the tote like he knows exactly where to go, plunging his hand past silk scarves and tangled charger cords, past whatever unholy chaos Cole crammed into that hellbag, and comes back up with it like it was always meant to end this way.
One bright pink bottle. Strawberry flavored.
I gape at him with my mouth fully open, eyes wide, brain short-circuiting into a pure what the actual fuck stare. He holds it up between us like a trophy—or a threat—and tilts it just enough for me to read the label.
Sweet Heat. Warms on contact.
Then he meets my eyes. The look he gives me is kind that strips you down to nerve and instinct and leaves nothing polite behind. My stomach drops, my pulse skids, and suddenly the room feels smaller.
I swallow, already doomed, and he smiles like he knows it.
Then, without saying a single word, he turns his back to me and walks toward the bedroom like he didn’t just rob me of breath. He strolls past the view, the champagne, the ocean, and the very concept of subtlety, and disappears through the bedroom door like the devil come to collect.
I’m still standing in the doorway, covered in travel sweat, suitcase handles digging into my palms, staring at the empty space he just left behind.
And then I move. Bags drop like bodies, cane thuds to the floor.
I kick off my shoes without bothering to aim.
Something falls over. I don’t care. Because if he thinks he’s using strawberry heat lube without me present to document, worship, and possibly combust mid-thrust—he’s out of his fucking mind.
I sprint after him, half-tripping on the plush rug, my shirt catching on the doorframe as I barrel into the bedroom like a man possessed. The second I hit the doorway, I blurt it—high and desperate, voice already fraying at the edges. “Cap!”
Damian stops mid-step, turns slowly, and looks over his shoulder with that look. The one that makes my knees forget how bones work. The one that makes my pulse trip, my breath hitch, my mouth dry out like I haven’t tasted him in days. That quiet, deliberate possession that rolls off him in waves.
I tear the tank top off so fast the seams pop, shimmy out of my shorts like they’re on fire, yank my briefs down and nearly trip in them.
My foot catches, I stumble, curse under my breath, and finally kick them free with a huff.
I’m already panting, already half-hard, already flushed head to toe and vibrating with need, standing naked in the middle of the honeymoon suite like I’ve lost every last functioning brain cell.
Damian watches the whole thing. His mouth curves—just a little. “Greedy,” he says.
I swallow, my hands twitching at my sides. “I’m on my honeymoon,” I say, trying not to whimper. “Aren’t I supposed to be?”
He turns the rest of the way, tosses the lube bottle onto the mattress behind him, and rolls his sleeves to his elbows.
I forget how to fucking breathe.
“Come here,” Damian says.
I move without thinking, legs carrying me forward like I’m tethered to him by something older than gravity. My skin feels too tight, my heart too loud, and my whole body hums with the knowledge that he could do anything right now and I’d thank him for it.
He doesn’t speak again. Just watches me come closer and when I’m standing in front of him, bare and aching, his gaze drags over me slowly—like he’s memorizing the state he left me in, like he’s building the next ruin in his head and deciding how loud he wants me to beg for it.
Then his hand lifts, his knuckles grazing my jaw first. A slow drag upward, over the curve of my cheek, until his fingers reach my curls and tangle there—just enough to hold.
Just enough to make me shiver. His palm settles against my scalp and my breath catches.
And then—he pulls with enough tension to tilt my head back, to make me gasp and go pliant under the weight of it.
My knees threaten to give, my hands twitch at my sides, and my cock jumps like it heard a starter pistol. “Cap…” I breathe, already gone.
He tugs again—firmer this time—and turns, guiding me by the hair toward the bed like he’s leading a lamb to the altar.
His grip isn’t cruel, but it’s sure. Possessive.
His fingers weave tighter as we move, and the lube bottle bounces once on the mattress before he stops walking and gestures lazily with his free hand.
“Up.”
His hand never leaves my hair. Even as I crawl onto the mattress, even as the sheets crinkle under my knees and the air goes thick with heat, his grip stays. I shift forward, heart pounding, trying to brace myself, trying to catch my breath.
A firm tug pulls me back and then his other hand is at my waist, dragging me sideways, twisting me until I’m exactly where he wants me. My knees hit the edge of the bed, my chest presses to the mattress, and my ass goes up.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs.
My thighs tremble, my fists curl in the bedding, and my breath goes ragged when I hear the slick, unmistakable click of the lube bottle opening behind me. I swallow hard, muscles already tightening, anticipation coiling in my gut.
I hear the lube shift, the bottle squeeze and I'm gone.
Slick and slow, two fingers drag lazy over the curve of my ass, spreading heat in a slow, reverent sweep. I bite down on the pillow, but Damian’s hand is back in my curls instantly, tugging just enough to make me moan.
“Easy, pup,” he murmurs. “We’ve got all night.”
His fingers dip lower, circling, painting lines of warmth and promise while I writhe under the touch like it’s already too much.
My cock presses hard into the sheets, leaking against the fabric, and I can’t stop the noises tumbling out of me.
Whimpers. Gasps. Broken little sounds I barely recognize as my own.
And then—I feel him lean in, his chest brushing my back and his lips ghosting my ear. “You start begging,” he says, low and lethal, “and I might not make you wait.”
I immediately whimper because I'm a sucker for him.
The first finger slips in and I suck in a breath, grip the sheets tighter, and arch instinctively—but the hand still tangled in my curls pulls tight, anchoring me in place with a gentle menace that makes my brain go static.
The pressure deepens. The stretch is just enough to make me squirm, to make my hips twitch forward in search of friction I’m not allowed to have.
Damian hums behind me. “Greedy,” he says again, a murmur against the base of my spine. “Didn’t even ask.”
“I thought—fuck—I thought we were past asking.”
He pushes deeper and I moan. The kind of sound that echoes off the walls and would definitely get us kicked out if anyone was walking past our suite.
He leans in then, close enough that I feel his breath fan over the curve of my back. His voice is soft, but it cuts straight through me. “You’re on your knees, dripping on hotel sheets, and you still think you’re the one calling the shots?”
His second finger slips in beside the first, making me gasp—sharp and wrecked—and he groans low like he’s the one being undone by it.
I want to buck. Want to thrust back onto his hand and chase the burn, the fullness, the goddamn everything I’ve been aching for since the second he smirked in the lobby.
But I don’t. Because he told me not to move.
So I press my forehead into the mattress and breathe through the slow, deliberate rhythm of his fingers opening me up with maddening control.
“Good boy,” he says, and I swear my vision goes white at the edges.
His hand in my hair tightens again, dragging my head back just enough to bare my throat to the air. His fingers fuck into me deeper, slow but unrelenting, and every curl of them sends sparks up my spine.
“You gonna come like this?” he asks, voice filthy and calm. “Just from my hand? Gonna soak my fingers before I even get inside you?”
My mouth is open, but nothing comes out—just gasps and moans and little helpless sounds that probably don’t qualify as English anymore.
“Hmm,” he says, thoughtful now. “Maybe I won’t fuck you yet. Maybe I’ll edge you like this for an hour. Two. Until you’re sobbing into the pillows, begging me to ruin our wedding sheets.”
“Cap,” I gasp, wrecked. “Please—”
He twists his wrist. Hits something inside me that makes me see stars. And then, softly—like a kiss and a warning all in one—“Beg prettier than that, pup.”