Chapter 6
He’s on his third mango daiquiri, which—fine. Vacation. Celebration. Two weeks into marriage and we’ve already broken a hammock, nearly gotten ourselves kicked out of the resort, and fucked in more locations than our room has pillows. He’s earned it.
But I’m watching him now. The way he licks the straw without thinking, the lazy sway of his body as the music drifts through the open bar, curls backlit by firelight and tiki torches, skin golden and catching the glow like it was made for it.
His cheeks are flushed, legs sprawled across my lap like I’m nothing more than furniture, a stupid little flower tucked behind his ear like someone dared him and he said yes without hesitation.
He looks like sex on a postcard.
And the bartender is staring.
Not a glance. Not a polite look. Staring—smiling slow, pouring drinks just a little too carefully, leaning over the bar farther than necessary. Making conversation. Saying Elias looks familiar. Asking if he plays a sport. Complimenting his drink choice. Telling him mango looks good on him.
I set my whiskey down.
Elias blinks at the bartender and smiles back like the drunk little menace he is, lips soft around the straw, eyes bright, and then he drawls my name in that slow, sing-song way that only comes out when he’s tipsy. “Caaaaaaap…”
And that’s it. That’s the line.
There are exactly two people on the planet allowed to flirt with Elias Kade without me committing a felony: me, and Cole fucking Vance.
Cole only survives because they’re essentially the same chaos gremlin split into two bodies with different trauma settings—and because I know exactly where Cole sleeps, and who he sleeps next to.
This guy? He doesn’t know the rules.
So I grab Elias by his curls, fist tightening just enough to make the point, and drag his mouth to mine.
I kiss him stupid—open-mouthed, tongue-deep, slow and unapologetically possessive, filthy enough that the clink of glasses behind the bar dies off mid-sound.
Someone coughs. Elias makes a dazed little noise into my mouth and then melts completely, hand fisting my shirt, hips shifting against my lap like his body remembers who it belongs to even when his brain is fried.
I pull back eventually. Just enough to make him whine. Then I look at the bartender. Deadpan. And shake my head once.
The guy goes bright red, stammers something about needing to check the stockroom, and disappears like he’s just seen the face of God and didn’t like what it promised.
Elias blinks up at me, curls mussed, drink tilted dangerously in his hand. “You kissed me in public.”
“I’ll do it again.”
“I liked it.”
“Good.”
He leans closer, voice dropping. “Are you gonna spank me when we get back?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Pup, I should spank you here.”
“Please do.” He says it too fast. Too soft. Too fucking eager.
I groan, knock back the rest of my whiskey in one go, and hook my hand around his wrist, hauling him off the stool and steering him straight toward the bathroom before he can say another word. The second the lock clicks shut behind us, I turn around slowly.
He’s already backing up. Palms out. Smile feral. The drink is gone—abandoned on the bar like he knew exactly what was coming the moment I dragged him through the door.
“So you wanna be spanked, huh?” I ask, voice low and measured.
His back bumps the sink and he grins. “Just saying,” he murmurs, unapologetic, “it was a very kissable moment, sir.”
I hum and reach up, tying my hair back with a lazy twist of my fingers, just enough to get it out of my face and more than enough to make him watch. My curls pull tight at the base of my neck, a few loose strands slipping free around my temple as I roll my sleeves up.
He swallows loudly.
My boots echo against the cheap tile as I walk toward him, each step unhurried. “You flirt with the bartender—”
“I didn’t—”
“You licked the straw.”
“It was mango, Damian!”
I raise a brow and he shuts up. Smart boy.
“Turn around,” I say, voice low enough to buzz.
He hesitates for half a second before obeying, spinning to face the mirror and bracing his hands on either side of the sink. His curls fall wild over his forehead, his shirt riding up just enough to bare the curve of his back, all soft lines and bad decisions.
I step in behind him, close enough that my chest brushes his spine, and drop my voice to a whisper as my fingers trail up his hips, finding the button of his shorts and working it slow. “Look at yourself,” I murmur. “Look how pretty you get when you misbehave.”
He moans and fucking melts, his head dropping, but I nudge it up again with a single hand to his jaw. “Eyes up, pup.”
“Yes, sir,” he breathes.
His shorts fall in one fluid motion, pooling around his ankles, and the second his ass—already flushed pink from earlier games—flexes under my gaze, I groan low in my chest, before bringing my hand down in a clean, deliberate slap that echoes off the walls.
He gasps, sharp and high, but there’s no time to recover before I give him another—harder this time—watching the way he arches into it without thinking, thighs trembling, his whole body straining forward as his reflection in the mirror goes hazy with need.
His lips are parted. His eyes are glassy.
He looks absolutely wrecked and we haven’t even started.
I lean in close until my breath grazes his ear, letting my voice drop to a low, dangerous murmur as I press my words directly into his skin. “You gonna flirt with another man again?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you gonna behave like my good boy now?”
“Yes—fuck, I will, I—please—” He stumbles over the words like his brain can’t keep up with the burn, and I pull back just far enough to land one more slap—sharp, loud, and perfectly placed right on the curve of his ass—drawing a ragged gasp from him as his knees nearly give out beneath the weight of it.
Then I drop to my knees behind him and I spread him open.
One hand on each cheek, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises.
His thighs are trembling already, and his breath fogs the mirror in front of him like he’s trying to stay quiet—like anyone outside this bathroom isn’t about to hear the way he whimpers when I lick a stripe over his hole.
He shakes hard, voice already splintering. “F-fuck—Damian—”
“Uh-uh,” I murmur, as I tighten my grip. “Stay still.”
His knees threaten to give out beneath him, but I wrap one arm around his thigh to hold him upright, anchoring him in place as I lean back in—mouth open, tongue slow, dragging over him with lazy precision that makes him shudder down to the bone.
I tease him deliberately, licking and flicking and lapping at him like I’ve got all the time in the world to make a mess.
He gasps when I suck, sharp and startled, like it’s just hitting him that I’m actually doing this—on my knees in a resort bathroom, mouth full of him, and zero intention of stopping.
I press my face deeper, tongue working him open while he scrabbles at the sink, breath stuttering, voice cracking like he’s seconds from collapse. “Damian, please, fuck, I’m—oh my god—”
I hum against him—deep, drawn-out and intentional—letting the vibration tear through him, and when he sobs, raw and helpless, I grin against his skin. “You’re so easy, pup,” I whisper, lips brushing him as I speak. “One slap and a tongue, and you’re already falling apart.”
“I’m not—!” he tries, but the lie dies halfway out of his mouth.
“You are. Look at yourself.”
He lifts his head and obeys, just barely, and the sound he makes when he sees his reflection is a soft, broken whimper that goes straight to my cock.
He’s flushed and trembling, face bright red, lips swollen from biting back sounds he can’t control. His curls are a wreck. His shirt’s bunched up over his back, and his thighs are quaking while I ruin him with nothing but my mouth and a firm grip to keep him steady.
I start again—slower this time, deeper—letting my tongue work, letting the tension build until his voice fractures completely, dissolving into desperate sounds I couldn’t translate if I tried. He begs. Pleads. Cries out.
And when I feel him start to shake, when the muscles in his thighs tense and his whole body starts to pull taut—I stop.
Then start again. And again.
“Cap—please—fuck—I’m gonna—don’t stop—”
But I do. Every time. Right at the edge, just as he’s tipping over, just when his breath goes sharp and his hips jerk forward like they don’t need permission.
And just when he’s gone completely—when his knees are starting to give and his fists are pounding the counter, when his voice is wrecked and his words have turned to static—then I press two fingers inside, slow and deep, curling them just right as I hum against his hole one last time.
He comes so hard his body jerks with it, a full-body convulsion that tears through him like lightning, his voice a raw wail into the mirror as he collapses forward, twitching and soaked in sweat, hips still rolling weakly against my face as he paints the counter.
And I thank all the fucking gods I don't believe in, that Elias can come like this.
I catch him before he hits the sink. Let him breathe. Then I lick him clean—slow, careful, reverent—while he whines in my arms, low and broken and grateful.
I kiss the backs of his thighs, right where they’re still trembling, and murmur, “Mine.”
I keep Elias there another beat, just long enough for his breath to even out, for the last aftershocks to shiver out of his thighs.
I zip him up slowly, like I’m putting a bow on my favorite gift, and press a final kiss to the hollow of his spine before I stand.
He leans against me for a second—lazy, pliant, fucked-out—and I straighten his clothes without a word.
Then I grab him by the wrist and lead him out.
The door clicks open, spilling light and noise over us as the bar snaps back into focus—neon haze, heat rising off the floor, bass thumping under some bad remix, and that same damn bartender still behind the counter, polishing a glass like he’s trying to mind his business.
He doesn’t succeed.
His eyes flick straight to Elias—taking in the ruined mouth, the flushed skin, the limp swagger in his walk, and the shirt collar that sits slightly askew like someone had been gripping it tight.
Then his gaze shifts to me, and I watch it register—the way my hand is still wrapped around Elias’s wrist, the silver on my fingers, the hair tied back in a loose knot, the slow, unbothered way I move like I’ve already claimed the entire fucking building.
I don’t say a word because Elias—brat, menace, walking catastrophe of my heart—flashes a grin wide enough to break the world and sing-songs, loud and sweet, “Thanks for the inspiration!”
The bartender’s face goes red instantly. His jaw drops open, the glass in his hand slipping just enough to clink against the bar with a trembling edge, and for a second he looks completely undone—caught between scandal and something far less innocent. Wrecked by implication alone.
Elias flops back into his seat like he owns the damn place, wraps both hands around his mango daiquiri, and takes a long, smug sip through his straw like the last ten minutes weren’t a goddamn crime of passion.
I slide into the chair beside him, lean over without a word, and sink my teeth into his shoulder.
He yelps, sharp and breathless, kicking his legs under the table as he starts to laugh, the sound ringing bright and dangerous as I growl low into his skin, “You’re gonna get us kicked off the fucking island.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just hums around another sip, eyes glinting. “Worth it.”
I shoot him a glare, sharp and warning and he kisses me—still laughing, still smug—his mouth hot and sweet with daiquiri and defiance, and I swear I’m going to devour him.