Chapter 2 #2
Between kisses, his voice comes out in a mumble, light and cheeky. “How about you sit down instead?”
I pull back half an inch, enough to see the glint in his eyes.
He’s grinning like he thinks he just flipped the script.
Like he’s in control now. Like I’m going to let him top from the hammock in the middle of our private beach and just hand over the reins because he asked nice with mango breath and that mouth.
I raise an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough for his smile to twitch, and then I smirk and shove sending him rocking back into the hammock as the netting jerks and sways beneath him, the breath knocked from his lungs in a startled little gasp.
His ass drops through the ropes, one leg still hooked over the side while the other scrabbles uselessly for purchase, and he yelps, sharp and indignant, “Shit!”
I lean over him, hands braced on either side of his head, boxing him in as my voice drops low enough it feels like it could split the sky. “Pup,” I growl, “don’t test me.”
His breath stutters, pupils blowing wide, and just like that the brat drains right out of him, replaced by something soft, pliant, and very aware of exactly who he’s dealing with.
I slide my hands up slowly, dragging my palms along his thighs—fingers spreading, pressing into muscle, slow enough to make him twitch. He gasps, eyes locked on mine like he doesn’t know whether to moan or bolt.
I don’t give him a chance to choose. The second my hands reach the edge of those trunks, I curl my fingers into the waistband and tear. There’s a loud rip—satisfying and sharp—and then fabric gives. The seams split, elastic snapping against his hips, and the swimwear gives up the ghost entirely.
Elias chokes on air. “Damian!”
I shrug, letting the tattered remains flutter to the sand like evidence. “Should’ve worn something less flimsy.”
“You could’ve just pulled them off!”
“I don’t feel like backing up,” I mutter, eyes fixed on him. “And you didn’t need them anyway.”
He’s fully exposed now, cock flushed and already hard, sticky from the afterglow of last night and the friction of the hammock’s ropes against his thighs. And he knows he looks obscene. He knows what that does to me.
But that doesn’t stop him from glaring. “Those were expensive.”
I run a single finger up his inner thigh—slow and cruel. “You’re on a private beach,” I say. “Naked and begging. And you’re whining about swim trunks?”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something smart, then thinks better of it, shuts it again, and finally groans as his head drops back against the ropes with a muttered, wrecked, “Fuck.”
The hammock sways under him, and I lean in, dragging my fingers higher along his body—close enough to graze.
“Cap,” he whispers, breath catching.
I hum, circling my thumb around the flushed tip. “You want more?”
He nods, frantic.
“Use your words.”
He groans and tries to lift his hips, but the hammock’s too unstable. He’s at my mercy and he knows it. “Please,” he gasps, hands fisting the netting beneath him. “Please, I want—I want your mouth, or your hand, or your cock—anything, just don’t tease—”
I raise a brow and smirk. “I am teasing,” I murmur. “That’s the point.”
He moans, but the second he tries to thrust up, I press down on his stomach with one flat palm, holding him still.
“Don’t squirm,” I say, calm as the tide.
“I can’t help it,” he gasps.
“Yes, you can,” I murmur, dragging my hand lower, fingers slipping between his legs. “You just don’t want to.”
Two fingers slide against his entrance—slick with lube I palmed from the beach bag earlier, warmed by the sun, slippery as sin. He’s already loose from last night, but not enough to take me yet.
I press in slow. One finger first, against his entrance—slick with lube I palmed from the beach bag earlier, warmed by the sun, slippery as sin.
Knuckle-deep, curling just slightly. I feel him tighten around it, feel his breath catch like he’s trying to be good, trying to stay still, even as his whole body trembles with the effort.
Then, with my other hand, I wrap my fingers lightly around his cock.
He makes a sound. A broken, needy whimper that tears straight from his chest as I stroke the length of him slow and easy—just the barest pressure, my thumb brushing his slit.
“Cap—fuck, Cap—”
“You said you were sore,” I murmur, adding another finger. “Want me to stop?”
“Don’t you dare.”
I chuckle. The hammock shifts again under us, creaking softly with every movement. He’s spread wide now, legs trembling, back arched in a way that makes his cock twitch helplessly in my hand every time I curl my fingers deeper inside him.
His thighs jerk as his breathing turns ragged, hands fisting the netting in white-knuckled grips like he’s hanging on by sheer willpower, like the only thing keeping him from screaming is the rope biting into his palms.
The hand on his cock stays slow. Lazy. Just enough to remind him what he isn’t getting.
No friction, no pace, no pressure to bring him anywhere near the edge.
I stroke him in time with the pull of my fingers inside him—deep and steady, opening him up while his cock pulses with every frustrated, ruined heartbeat.
“Damian,” he gasps, writhing now, eyes glassy and wide. “I’m gonna—I need—please.”
I tighten my grip just a little and he lets out a broken moan that turns into a sob, back arching as he grinds helplessly into my hand. “You gonna come from this?” I murmur, leaning close, lips brushing his jaw. “From my fingers in your ass and the softest jerkoff of your life?”
He whines high and desperate. “I don’t know—I don’t—fuck—please—”
I pull out just enough to make him feel the absence. Then push back in, crooked and cruel.
He screams into his arm. I can feel the moment he loses patience.
His whole body tightens. Not in that sweet, needy way he gets when he’s spiraling into pleasure—but in that bratty, fuck-it way he gets when he thinks he’s got leverage.
When he thinks he can flip the dynamic with a single well-placed touch.
His hand darts down, fast and reckless, fingers fumbling for the waistband of my swim trunks.
“No—” I growl.
His fingertips brush the bulge of my cock, smug and hungry and desperate for more. So I slap his hand away and his breath catches like I punched the air out of him.
Two fingers becomes three. He screams a choked, guttural sound that punches straight through the salt-thick air as his back arches and his body tightens like a bowstring. His thighs snap inward. The hammock lurches under us with the sudden shift, ropes creaking in protest, but I don’t budge.
I curl all three fingers deep inside him, pressing slow and steady until he’s gasping like he’s drowning in it. My other hand keeps stroking him lazily.
He’s shaking now, sweat slicking his skin as he bites down on his own lip hard enough to keep the sound trapped in his chest.
“You don’t get to touch me,” I say softly. “Not until I let you.”
He whimpers—broken and raw, cock leaking, legs trembling around me.
“You want my cock?”
He nods frantically.
“You want me to ruin you right here? On this hammock? Where anyone could walk by and hear the noises you’re making?”
“Yes,” he gasps, barely able to speak. “Please—yes, yes—Cap, I need—”
“You should’ve asked,” I whisper, twisting my fingers.
He cries out shamelessly.
The netting beneath him digs into his skin, rope marks already etching into the soft parts of his thighs. His cock jumps in my hand again, slick and flushed and twitching with every pulse of his ruined, overstimulated body.
He tries to be good. He really does. He bites his lip, claws at the ropes, whines soft and desperate into the air like he still thinks he can hold it together—but then he makes that sound.
That helpless, aching, sweet little noise that comes out of him when he’s right at the edge, stretched too wide, cock throbbing, back arched, body nothing but nerve endings and need. And it breaks me.
I growl low in my throat and pull my fingers out in one slow, wet drag.
He gasps at the loss, but I don’t give him time to miss it.
I tug my trunks down with one hand, grip his hip with the other, and line myself up against him—his hole slick and open and twitching, begging without words.
My breath stutters once, heat rolling through me in a wave, and then I push in slowly, just to feel all of it.
The stretch. The heat. The way he clenches around me like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all fucking morning.
The hammock rocks under us, the ropes creaking with every inch I sink deeper, and Elias slaps a hand over his own mouth.
Like he knows the noises he’s about to make and doesn’t trust himself to stay quiet.
I bottom out slowly, hips flush against his ass, his back arching under me with a choked sob he barely muffles with his palm. “Fuck,” I grit, voice dark and shaking. “You feel—Christ, Elias.”
He looks up at me with glassy eyes, hand still clapped over his mouth, body shuddering with every throb of my cock inside him.
He whimpers into his hand again, and all I can think, as I stay buried inside him, as his body pulses around me like it was built for this—for me—is how fucking good he is like this.
I brace one hand against the netting beside his shoulder. Slide the other down to his hip, grip firm and grounding. The hammock creaks under our weight, tension groaning through the ropes, but it holds.
So I shift my stance and start to rock him.
Not just with my hips—but with the whole goddamn hammock.
I roll us gently, timing each thrust with the rhythm of the swing, letting gravity and silk and design do what the sand never could.
My leg thanks me for it. But more than that—Elias moans.
Just a soft, broken sob of air behind his hand.
Like the motion caught him off guard. Like the care of it broke something deeper than force ever could. .
He’s panting now. His hand’s slipping where it presses over his mouth, his eyes wild and wet, lips parted underneath, like he’s trying to smother something feral that won’t stop clawing out of him.
“You feel that, pup?” I murmur, leaning closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “How easy you take me when you stop fighting it?”
He whines, tries to answer but nothing comes out.
His free hand fists in the hammock beside him, pulling at the rope like it might help him stay grounded, but he’s already gone—so far gone.
Every thrust pushes him deeper into the netting, deeper into me, every swing rocking him into that line where pain turns to pleasure and pleasure turns to worship.
“You’re being so good,” I whisper, voice hoarse with heat. “You keep being good, and I won’t stop. I’ll fuck you like this all goddamn day. Let you come on my cock while the wind rocks you.”
He sobs and shakes and I slide a hand down between us, wrap it around his cock again—still untouched properly, still aching—and stroke him in time with the swing, in time with the rhythm.
He’s close. The sounds he’s making—fuck, they unmake me. Those muffled, helpless noises caught behind his hand like he’s trying to trap the moans in his throat. But I hear them. Every one. And they light something up in me.
I dig my fingers into his hips and let the rhythm shift—deeper, harder, sharper now with every swing of the hammock, my cock driving in with enough force to make the netting snap tighter under him, enough to punch those sweet gasps into tiny yelps he can’t hold back.
His body jerks with every thrust, his back arches, and then I feel the way his thighs tremble, the way his moan breaks midway through and his hand drops from his mouth like even he can’t keep quiet anymore.
“Fuck—Cap—fuck—” he gasps, head falling back as the hammock slips.
Just an inch. Just enough to tilt him, off-balance, one rope groaning high and sharp in protest. His breath catches, eyes going wide, and for a second his brain short-circuits with adrenaline.
And that’s all it takes. His body clenches around me, his hands scrabble for grip, his voice breaks into a desperate, shattered cry, and he comes.
Hot and messy between us, cock twitching in my hand, painting his stomach and the ropes and my chest as his eyes roll back and his mouth falls open on a whimper that sounds like my name.
I don’t stop. I can’t. I fuck him through it, deeper, the hammock swinging harder with each thrust as the knot in my spine coils tighter, teeth bared, grip bruising—and I know I’m not going to last much longer.
But that doesn’t matter. Not with my husband shaking under me, gasping for air, smiling through the ruin.