Chapter 7 #2
“Right there, huh?” he breathes, low and proud.
I nod frantically, back arching, and he does it again, until I’m gone.
Until I’m moaning like a fucking pornstar and leaking all over his hand, my thighs shaking, my brain melted to steam.
It’s too much, and not enough, and I can’t stop begging, whispering broken things like thank you and yours and more like I’ve lost every last ounce of pride I had left.
Then I scream—or I try to—but it comes out as this helpless, guttural sob when I finally come all over his hand, my body snapping taut like a live wire.
He laughs smug as hell. “Good boy,” he whispers.
I can barely stay on the damn bench, slick with sweat and slicker between my thighs, and Damian is still going.
He keeps his fingers buried deep and starts rubbing slow, devastating circles against that spot inside me that makes my brain go blank.
My head tips back, a whine scraping out of my throat as my entire body jerks under him.
I’m ruined. Gone. Words don’t work anymore.
Only sounds. High, desperate, filthy little moans that I couldn’t stop even if I tried.
And he eats them up. “Take me to a couple’s massage again, pup…” Damian growls near my ear, every word dripping with threat and filth. “See what happens.”
I sob. My thighs squeeze around his wrist, but I don’t stop him.
Every part of me is too busy clenching and throbbing and spiraling apart, and his fingers—fuck, his fingers—just keep teasing that spot like he’s trying to ruin it for anyone else forever.
I’m already overstimmed. Already wrecked. But he wants more.
I claw at his back, trying to pull him closer, but my fingers just slip over his skin. He’s sweating too—steam curling around both of us like smoke. I pant against his throat, voice cracking with every word. “Cap—please—I’m—I’m gonna—”
“You’re gonna what, baby?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear while his fingers stroke me deeper, slower. “Come again? Just from my fingers like a good little husband?”
I howl.
The knock comes like a thunderclap—sharp, polite, and horrifying. “Excuse me,” a voice calls from the other side, muffled through the thick wood. “You should consider taking a break. We don’t recommend staying in the sauna longer than twenty minutes.”
My whole body seizes. I squeak—yes, squeak, like a panicked little animal—and my face goes up in flames. I want to scream that we’re busy, that we’re fine, that everything’s normal, but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper as Damian's fingers don’t stop. Not even for a second.
If anything, he presses deeper.
I slap a hand over my mouth, mortified, but Damian just smirks against my neck and licks a drop of sweat trailing down my throat.
His tongue is hot, slow and obscene—like he’s savoring it.
“Don’t be rude, pup,” he murmurs, fingers curling right against that spot that’s already pulsing. “They’re just doing their job.”
I whine behind my hand, but he doesn’t let up.
His palm grinds against me while his other hand strokes low and deep, relentless and cruel in the best possible way.
My body’s jerking again. My vision’s going.
Everything’s too much. My muscles lock, every nerve screaming for release, and then—I snap and bite down on Damian’s shoulder—hard—trying to muffle the scream as I come again, back arched off the bench, hand slipping off my mouth as the sound tears loose anyway. It’s guttural. Raw. Fucking feral.
Damian groans like it hurt, but I feel his cock twitch against my thigh.
Sick bastard.
He presses a slow kiss to my cheek, lips warm and lingering, like he's not the reason I’m shaking like a fucking leaf.
His fingers slip out just as slow, and I flinch from the aftershock, whining softly into his neck.
I’m soaked—inside, outside, head spinning—and then he’s wiping me down with a towel like we’re just…
cooling off. Normal. Civilized. Except my insides are jelly and my knees aren’t working.
He doesn’t give me time to recover. He grabs my wrist and hauls me off the bench. The door swings open behind us, steam curling around our ankles as we step into the cooler hallway—and I can breathe again. My lungs fill, the air fresh and crisp and not made of sin and sweat.
But my legs are fucking useless. I stumble, nearly face-planting into the hallway floor, and Damian catches me with an arm around my waist, smug and solid and not even winded.
“You know,” he drawls, voice like warm whiskey against the back of my ear, “for a very fast hockey player…” He pauses, just long enough to let me flinch. “…your legs give out real quick when I touch you, pup.”
I groan loud and pitiful and don’t even try to defend myself. My face is already red to the roots, my body is wrecked, and I think I left my spine back in the sauna somewhere. “Asshole,” I mutter.
Damian’s grin is downright vile—lazy, smug, the kind that says he knows exactly what he did to me and isn’t even close to sorry for it.
Back in the suite, I’m doing my best impression of someone who hasn’t just been thoroughly wrecked in sauna. Every step feels like a challenge. I’m halfway across the room, muttering curses under my breath, when a knock echoes from the door.
Damian raises an eyebrow.
I raise one right back, trying not to wince as I shift my weight. “If it’s spa security,” I mutter, “I’m throwing myself off the balcony.”
He chuckles, doesn’t answer, just strides over and opens the door.
It’s not spa security.
It’s worse.
Standing there is a man in a perfectly pressed uniform—resort management, clearly—posture stiff, smile polite, and radiating the kind of weary professionalism that says he’s definitely not paid enough to deal with honeymooners like us.
He clears his throat, offers Damian a small, neatly folded piece of paper, nods once, and walks away without a single word.
Damian closes the door behind him with the kind of calm that only makes me more nervous, then unfolds the note like he already knows it’s going to be good.
His eyes flick down, and he snorts—short and sharp—before reading aloud in a dry drawl, “‘Dear Mr. and Mr. Kade, While we sincerely hope you are enjoying your honeymoon, we kindly ask that guests refrain from—’” he pauses, lips twitching, “‘—excessive vocalization during spa treatments.’”
I make a strangled noise—part gasp, part dying whale—and collapse backward onto the couch, dragging both hands over my face. “Oh my god, they actually wrote that?”
He doesn’t even flinch. Just lifts the paper higher and says, “There’s more.”
“Don’t—”
“‘—or other intimate conduct in shared wellness areas. Our staff is not trained for… that level of service. Thank you for understanding.’”
I let out a groan so loud it might qualify as another offense. My palms are glued to my face. My ears are on fire. “But it’s our honeymoon,” I mutter through my fingers, already picturing the poor masseuse sprinting for the exit while I got railed into nirvana.
Damian, naturally, is the picture of zero remorse. His smirk alone could peel the paint off every wall in the suite. “Should’ve written that on the waiver,” he says, tossing the note onto the table. “Or printed it on a damn shirt.”
I peek at him between my fingers, glare as best I can while still mortified. “You’re not even sorry.”
He crosses the room without missing a beat, crouches between my knees like it’s instinct, and presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. His voice is a growl against my skin. “I’m celebrating, pup.”