16. Damien
Chapter 16
Damien
M y private study offers a more intimate environment for the conversation at hand. I move to a small bar cart in the corner, pulling out two crystal glasses. The weight of what I’m about to reveal presses down on me like a physical force.
“Thirty-year-old Macallan,” I say, handing her one of the glasses. “You might need it for what comes next.”
She accepts the glass but doesn’t drink, watching as I settle into an armchair across from the sofa where she’s chosen to sit. The space between us feels both necessary and too vast.
“Start at the beginning,” she says quietly. “You mentioned being nine years old.”
I take a long sip of whiskey, my eyes fixed on the fire rather than her. When I speak, my voice has lost its usual polished cadence.
“My mother was a dancer. Not the ballet or anything prestigious—she worked at clubs, taking off her clothes for men who saw her as nothing more than an object.” I pause, swirling the liquid in my glass. “She was beautiful, though. And kind, when she wasn’t high or drunk.”
Eve remains silent, letting me continue at my own pace.
“She had terrible taste in men. Drug dealers and pimps, mostly. Violent ones. There was a revolving door of them throughout my childhood.” My jaw tightens. “The last one was named Ray. He sold coke, slapped her around, and used me as a punching bag when she wasn’t available.”
The clinical detachment in my voice makes the words sound even more disturbing.
“One night, I came home from school and found her on the kitchen floor.” My eyes close briefly, the memory still vivid. “He’d beaten her badly before, but this time was different. There was so much blood. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing. I tried to wake her up, but she was already cold.”
Eve takes a sip of whiskey, and I’m sure the burn in her throat is a welcome distraction from the horror of my words.
“I didn’t cry,” I continue, my voice hollow. “I didn’t call the police. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I took a knife from the kitchen drawer—the biggest one we had—and I waited.”
The flames cast shadows across my face, highlighting the angles of my jaw, the darkness in my eyes.
“I waited for hours, sitting in the dark beside my mother’s body. When Ray finally came home, high and looking for her, I was ready.” My hand tightens around the glass. “I stabbed him twenty-seven times. I counted each one. The first few were clumsy—I was nine and he was a grown man. But once he fell, it became easier.”
I lean forward, the memory still haunting me as vividly as the day it happened.
“I started with his stomach. The blade sank into his flesh with a resistance I hadn’t anticipated, but the sound it made—that wet, sucking sound—it was . . . beautiful. He tried to fight back at first, his hands clawing at me, but I was quick. Small, but quick.”
I notice Eve hasn’t flinched, hasn’t looked away. Something about her steady gaze encourages me to continue.
“He begged, you know. Called me ‘kid’ and promised he’d leave and never come back. But with each thrust of the knife, I felt more powerful. His blood was warm on my hands, splashing my face, soaking my clothes. By the fifteenth stab, he’d stopped moving. The rest . . . those were just for me. For the satisfaction of watching the life drain completely from his eyes. I can still remember the way they clouded over, and how his body twitched with each new wound even after consciousness had left him.”
I take another sip of whiskey before continuing.
“When it was over, I sat between their bodies, covered in blood, wondering what would happen next.” I finally look at Eve, my eyes searching hers for judgment, revulsion, fear. “That’s when Victor Messini found me.”
“Victor owned the building,” I continue after taking another drink. “He had other properties in the neighborhood, too—fronts for money laundering. He came to collect late rent from my mother and instead found a blood-soaked child sitting calmly between two corpses.”
“What did he do?” Eve asks, her voice sounding strange in the quiet room.
“He had just finished dealing with one of his own problems when he arrived. There was blood under his fingernails that wasn’t mine or Ray’s. I noticed that immediately—how careful he was with his expensive suit, but how careless he’d been with his hands.” A ghost of a smile touches my lips. “That night, I had watched him put a bullet in the head of a man who’d been skimming from his operation. Did it right in the alley behind our building. I saw it through the window while waiting for Ray. When Victor noticed me watching, he should have killed me too. Instead, he came to investigate afterward. He didn’t realize who I was until he came upstairs.”
I pause, remembering the moment that changed everything.
“He crouched down in his expensive suit, looked me in the eye, and asked if I killed Ray.” My lips curve. “When I said yes, he nodded like I’d given the correct answer to a simple math problem. Then he asked if I was sorry.”
“Were you?” Eve asks, her eyes never leaving mine.
“No.” The answer comes without hesitation. “I told him I’d do it again if I could. That I’d do it slower next time. That I’d make him feel every second of pain he’d ever inflicted on my mother and me. Victor didn’t flinch. He just . . . understood.”
I suppress a shiver at the image of a nine-year-old me, covered in blood, speaking such words with the same calm certainty I display now.
“Victor saw something in me that day— potential , he later called it. Recognition, I’ve come to believe. He saw himself in me. Instead of calling the police, he made some calls to his associates. Within an hour, a cleanup crew arrived. They took the bodies, scrubbed the apartment, and Victor took me.”
“He just . . . took you?” Eve tries to imagine the scenario: a wealthy businessman claiming a blood-covered child like salvaged property.
“He became my legal guardian through channels I didn’t understand until years later. He had connections everywhere—police, judges, politicians. The necessary documents appeared, and I became his ward: the lost boy he’d charitably taken in after a tragic accident claimed his parents. A new identity, a new history, a new life crafted with such meticulous attention to detail that no one ever questioned it.”
The parallels to Eve’s own life—parents lost suddenly, future derailed—don’t escape me.
“Victor educated me, shaped me. Tutors, private schools, lessons in everything from martial arts to art history.” My tone shifts, something like reluctant reverence entering my voice. “And he taught me about The Shadows.”
“What was it like then?” Eve asks, genuinely curious about the organization’s origins.
“Smaller, more primitive than what we are now. Four members, including Victor, who each represented a different aspect of power—finance, politics, enforcement, intelligence.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “They dispensed their own brand of justice, targeting those beyond the reach of the law. People like Ray, who hurt others without consequence.”
“And you wanted to be part of that.”
“I wanted to create order from chaos. To ensure that people who deserved punishment received it, regardless of their wealth or connections.” My eyes meet hers directly. “I believed in their purpose, Eve. I still do, though our methods have evolved.”
The fire has burned lower, casting the study in softer light as I continue my confession.
“Three years ago, I killed Victor Messini.”
The statement lands with simple finality, no embellishment or justification offered.
“Why?” Eve asks, though I suspect she already knows.
“Multiple reasons. He had become a liability to The Shadows—reckless and cruel for the sake of cruelty rather than justice.” My expression darkens. “But primarily because of your parents. Because of what he took from you.”
The revelation sends a jolt through her. “You killed him . . . for me?”
“For you.” I meet her gaze directly. “Though you didn’t know it, couldn’t know it. It was an atonement of sorts, though an inadequate one.”
“How did you do it?” I’m sure the question emerges before she can consider whether she truly wants to know the answer.
“Carefully. Methodically.” My voice takes on a clinical quality that likely makes the description more disturbing. “I’d been planning it for years, weighing consequences, preparing contingencies. When the time came, I invited him to Eden for dinner. We discussed business, reminisced about old times. I poured him his favorite Scotch, laced with a paralytic derived from one of my rare plants.”
I pause, studying her reaction. When she doesn’t flinch or look away, I continue.
“I waited until the drug took effect. Watched the confusion spread across his face as he realized something was wrong. First, he couldn’t feel his fingers. Then his hands. The paralysis spread slowly, intentionally—I’d calibrated the dose precisely for that effect.”
Something shifts in my voice—a hint of satisfaction, of pleasure, in the memory.
“I told him why he was dying, and mentioned your parents by name. Made sure he understood that his actions had consequences, even after all those years. The recognition in his eyes when he realized I’d betrayed him . . . it was exquisite. Fifteen years as his protégé, his second-in-command, his heir apparent, and he never saw it coming. Never suspected that I’d been planning his demise since the night of your parents’ accident.”
I lean closer, my eyes brightening with the dark memory.
“His last words were ‘I made you.’ And he was right, of course. He created the man capable of ending him. There’s a certain poetry in that, don’t you think? The creator destroyed by his creation.”
“Did he suffer?” Eve’s question surprises me as much as it seems to please her.
“Yes.” No hesitation, no pretense of remorse. “I made certain of it. The paralytic immobilized him but left his sensory nerves intact. He felt everything. I wanted him to experience the fear your parents felt in their final moments—the helplessness of knowing death was coming and being unable to stop it.”
I run my fingers absently over the rim of my glass, recalling the details with unsettling pleasure.
“I used a blade similar to the one I’d used on Ray. I thought it was poetic symmetry, but this time, with skills honed through decades rather than the clumsy desperation of a child. I worked slowly, methodically, explaining the anatomical significance of each cut. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t move, could only watch through increasingly desperate eyes as I dismantled him piece by piece.”
“Did you enjoy it?” Eve asks, needing to understand exactly who sits across from her—exactly what darkness we share.
“Yes.” My honesty is unflinching. “I savored every moment of his fear, his realization, his final moments. I took pleasure in delivering justice that was eight years overdue. The sound of his struggling breaths, the moment he realized he couldn’t fight back, the gradual acceptance in his eyes as he understood that this was the end—I cherished it all.” My eyes hold hers, searching for judgment. “Does that make me a monster in your eyes?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications. The truth is, it should. In any rational moral framework, taking pleasure in causing suffering, in ending a life—even a guilty one—crosses a line into monstrosity.
Yet Eve finds herself understanding my satisfaction, perhaps even sharing it. If she had been there, would she have turned away? Or would she have watched, taking the same dark pleasure in seeing her parents’ killer face consequences at last?
“No,” she answers finally. “It makes you human. A darker version of humanity than most acknowledge, but human nonetheless.”
“There’s one more thing you need to know, Eve. About my original plan for you.”
I notice the look in her eyes—not disgust or horror, but something closer to understanding. Something that confirms what I’ve suspected: There’s darkness in Eve Thorne, too—just waiting to be awakened.
“When you photographed me in the forest preserve,” I continue, “when our paths crossed again after eight years, I saw an opportunity. Not just for myself, but for The Shadows.”
My voice remains steady, determined to give her the complete truth I promised.
“I intended to bring you in gradually, to expose you to our methods, our purpose. To cultivate you as an asset with your unique skills and perspective.”
“You were grooming me.” The realization isn’t new, but hearing it stated explicitly still stings.
“Yes. Manipulating circumstances, creating situations where you would see the failures of conventional justice, where you would begin to understand the necessity of our approach.” I lean forward, eyes intense. “But something unexpected happened. The boundaries I’d maintained began to crumble. The obsession I’d kept carefully controlled evolved into something deeper, something more genuine.”
“What?” she presses, needing to hear me name it.
I hesitate, perhaps searching for a word that can encompass the complexity of what exists between us. “Connection,” I say finally. “Real connection, beyond manipulation or calculation. Something I haven’t felt since I was nine years old, holding that bloody knife. Something I didn’t believe myself capable of anymore.”
The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and genuine. It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever said to her—perhaps the most honest thing I’ve said to anyone in decades.
“When you left,” I continue, my voice rougher now, “when you discovered the truth about your parents and disappeared, I realized something I hadn’t allowed myself to acknowledge before.”
“What?” she asks, though I think she knows the answer.
“That you matter more to me than The Shadows. More than the empire I’ve built, more than the power I wield. More than anything. ” My eyes meet hers, vulnerability and certainty mingling in their depths. “That I would sacrifice it all if it meant keeping you in my life.”
Silence fills the study as my confession hangs in the air between us. The fire has burned down to embers, casting the room in a soft orange light that softens the hard edges of the man I’ve become. I’m completely exposed now—not just physically, but emotionally—my defenses stripped away, my carefully constructed walls demolished.
For the first time since I’ve known her, I am entirely honest, entirely vulnerable. Entirely human.
“There’s more,” I say, the words escaping before I can reconsider. “Something I haven’t shown anyone.”
I rise from my chair, moving to a painting on the far wall, an abstract piece in shades of crimson and black. Eve watches silently as I press my palm against the frame, revealing a hidden fingerprint scanner. The painting slides aside, exposing a recessed wall safe.
“If you’re going to know me, truly know me, you should see all of it,” I say, entering the combination with practiced precision.
The safe opens with a soft click, and I remove a polished wooden box inlaid with obsidian.
“What is that?” Eve asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I return to my seat across from her, placing the box on the low table between us. “My private collection.”
Her eyes dart between the box and my face, curiosity warring with apprehension. I can see her weighing possibilities, measuring her capacity for more darkness tonight.
“Open it,” I encourage, sliding it toward her. “This is who I truly am, Eve.”
With shaking hands, she lifts the lid. Inside, nestled in custom-fitted velvet, lies an assortment of small objects: a tarnished wedding ring, a jade cufflink, a silver money clip engraved with initials, a single gold tooth, a Rolex watch with a shattered face, a woman’s pearl earring.
“Trophies,” she whispers, understanding immediately.
“Memories,” I correct, though the distinction is meaningless. “Proof of debts paid and justice delivered.”
Her finger hovers over the wedding ring. “Whose was this?”
“A judge who sentenced innocent men to private prisons for kickbacks. He had blood on his hands, metaphorically.” I allow myself a small smile. “I ensured the metaphor became literal.”
Her gaze shifts to the gold tooth. “And this?”
“A trafficker who specialized in children.” My voice hardens at the memory. “I removed it myself. He was still alive at the time.”
I watch her face carefully, waiting for the revulsion—the horror that should come with this revelation. Instead, I see something that mirrors the dark satisfaction I feel when I look at these objects. It’s an understanding that borders on appreciation.
“The pearl earring?” she asks, her voice steady.
“The wife of a cartel leader. She personally oversaw the torture of witnesses who might testify against her husband.” I lean forward slightly. “She always wore pearls, even when she worked. I thought it fitting to keep one as a reminder.”
Eve’s fingers trace the edge of the box, not quite touching the contents. “How many?”
“Twenty-seven,” I answer without hesitation. “One for each operation I’ve personally executed since taking over The Shadows. The most significant ones, anyway.”
“And the others?” She meets my gaze directly. “The ones not significant enough for your collection?”
“Lost to memory,” I lie. The true number would terrify even her. “These are the ones who deserved . . . special attention.”
She closes the lid gently, her expression thoughtful rather than disgusted. “You keep pieces of them. Physical reminders.”
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate. I don’t explain the comfort I take in these tangible proofs of power, these small emblems of lives I’ve ended with my own hands.
“Why show me this?” Her question cuts to the heart of my motivation. “Why now?”
“Because you need to understand the man you’re choosing,” I say, retrieving the box and returning it to the safe. “The darkness you’re embracing isn’t theoretical, Eve. It’s twenty-seven lives. Twenty-seven souls I’ve personally removed from this world because I judged them unworthy of continued existence.”
When I turn back to her, she’s standing, her expression unreadable in the fading firelight.
“Does it disturb you?” I ask, closing the distance between us. “To know I keep pieces of the people who’ve ceased to exist because of me?”
Her answer will determine everything—whether she can truly accept the monster beneath the man, whether the vulnerability I’ve shown tonight will become my destruction or my salvation.
“Yes,” she says finally, her voice steady and sure, “. . . and no.”
I reach for her, my hand cupping her face with a gentleness that belies the violence these same fingers have inflicted.
“That’s why you’re perfect for me, Eve,” I murmur, drawing her closer. “You see the monster and you don’t look away.”
She studies me across the space that separates us, trying to reconcile the many versions of myself I’ve presented: the cold CEO threatening Roberts in the forest preserve; the calculating manipulator who drew her into his world; the ruthless killer who ended Kurt Ivy’s life without hesitation; the broken man who knelt before her; and the obsessed watcher who carried her name on his skin.
“You promised to let me go,” she says finally, “if that’s what I choose after hearing everything.”
I nod once, resignation settling over my features. “I did. And I will.”
“Even knowing that it might destroy you? Destroy The Shadows?”
“Yes.” No hesitation, no calculation. Just truth.
She sets her glass on the table and stands, watching as my body tenses, preparing for her departure.
Instead, she moves toward me, closing the distance between us until she’s directly in front of my chair. I look into her eyes, confusion and hope warring in their depths as I search for any hint of what’s about to come next.
Slowly, deliberately, she reaches out and places her hand against my cheek. Her skin is warm beneath my palm, the slight stubble of my beard rough against her fingers. I remain perfectly still, afraid any movement might shatter this unexpected moment.
“Eve?” Her name is a question on my lips, uncertain and hopeful.
Instead of answering, she leans down and presses her lips to mine. The kiss is gentle, tentative—nothing like the hungry desperation of our previous encounters. My hands remain at my sides, allowing her complete control of this moment, this choice.
When she pulls back, my eyes are closed, my breathing uneven. “I don’t understand,” I whisper.
“Neither do I,” she admits, her hand still cradling my face. “By any rational measure, I should walk away. I should hate you for what you did—for the years you watched me, for everything you’ve just confessed.”
My eyes open, meeting hers with cautious hope. “But?”
“But hate isn’t what I feel when I look at you.” She moves closer, settling into my lap, her knees on either side of my thighs. “What I feel is more complicated. Darker. Deeper.”
My hands finally move, coming to rest lightly on her hips, as if still wondering if this is a cruel prelude to rejection. “Tell me,” I urge.
“I feel understood,” she says, trying to articulate the strange alchemy between us. “I feel seen in ways no one else has ever seen me. The darkness in me, the hunger for justice, the capacity for violence I didn’t know I possessed until I pulled that trigger in the alley . . . you recognized all of it before I did.”
My grip on her hips tightens slightly, but I remain silent, letting her continue.
“What you did to my parents was unforgivable,” she says, watching my face fall at the words. “And yet, I find myself offering forgiveness anyway. Not because you deserve it, but because I choose to give it. Because holding on to that hatred hurts me more than it hurts you.”
I swallow hard, emotion making my voice rough when I speak. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
“No, you don’t.” She leans closer, brushing her lips against mine again. “But you have it anyway. And you have me, if you still want me.”
The words have hardly left her lips before my arms encircle her, pulling her tight against my chest. My mouth finds hers, this kiss deeper, hungrier, but still restrained. My hands frame her face as our kiss deepens, a hunger building inside me that I’ve held back for too long. When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, I search her eyes for any lingering doubt.
“Have you made your decision?” I ask, my voice rough with barely contained desire.
“Yes,” she answers without hesitation. “I choose you.”
Something shifts inside me at her words, a darkness unfurling, a predator freed from its cage. I stand, taking her hand firmly in mine.
“Come with me,” I command rather than request, leading her from my study toward the hidden entrance that guards the underground sanctuary.
Eve follows, confusion flickering across her face as I guide her past the main chamber where the council meets, toward the inner sanctum that houses my throne—the room where final judgments are passed, where ultimate power resides.
“Why are we here?” she asks as we enter the circular chamber, its obsidian walls gleaming in the subdued lighting.
I don’t answer immediately, instead moving to take my seat upon the raised base. The throne feels different beneath me now—not a symbol of isolation, but a stage for what comes next.
“Come stand before me,” I instruct, my tone shifting. Eve hesitates only briefly before complying, moving to stand at the foot of the dais. Her eyes never leave mine, defiant even in compliance.
“What is your decision, Eve?” I ask again, wanting to hear the words in this sacred space.
“I’m staying,” she replies, her voice steady despite the tension radiating between us. “With you.”
“Do you truly understand what this means? That this is a binding decision you are making with your soul? I will own you completely. Your body, your soul, your mind. There is nothing about you I won’t know. There is nothing in this world or the next that will ever be allowed to harm you.”
She nods.
“Audible, Eve.”
“Yes.”
“Are you mine?” The question emerges as a low growl.
“Yes.”
“Body, soul, and mind?” I press further, needing her to understand the totality of what I’m asking.
She draws a deep breath, her eyes never wavering. “Yes.”
I lean forward slightly, lust radiating from every line of my body. “Kneel.”
For the first time, genuine hesitation crosses her features. She remains standing, challenge flickering in her gaze.
“I won’t say it again.” The edge returns to my voice, The CEO of The Shadows emerging fully now. The man who expects absolute obedience.
Slowly, deliberately, Eve sinks to her knees before the dais, her eyes still locked with mine. The sight of her willingly submitting to my authority sends heat coursing through me.
“No other man will ever touch you again, do you understand me? Your body is mine to do with as I please, when I please.”
“Yes.”
“Come to me,” I command softly.
She begins to rise, but I raise a hand to stop her. “No.” Confusion passes over her face again. “Down.” I point.
The request hangs between us—a test of boundaries, of trust, of her willingness to surrender control. For a moment, I think she might refuse, might draw the line here. Then, maintaining eye contact, she drops back down to the floor and begins to move forward on hands and knees, closing the distance between us with deliberate slowness.
When she reaches the foot of my throne, I lean down, fingers gently lifting her chin. “Look at you,” I murmur in satisfaction. “Such a good, obedient girl. Are you ready to worship me?”
A spark of defiance flashes in her eyes. “Worship the devil?”
I lower my voice, my thumb brushing across her lower lip. “I might be the devil, baby, but we both know I’m your god.”
My finger traces the curve of her lip, and without warning, she bites down—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make me hiss in surprise and arousal.
“Careful,” I warn, the word carrying both a threat and a promise.
I reach for my belt, maintaining my grip on her chin. Her eyes widen slightly as she realizes my intentions, but there’s only dark anticipation that mirrors my own.
“I want you to show me how much you want this,” I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous register. “How much you want me.”
My cock is already hard, begging to be freed. I wrap my hands around my shaft, pumping my fist up and down once. She licks her lips, watching my movements.
“That’s right,” I smile, freeing myself, “you like to watch, don’t you?” Her eyes flash to mine, her cheeks glowing red as we both relish the memory of her watching me in the shower.
I continue stroking myself, reaching up to slowly unbutton my shirt so she can see her name blazoned across my chest.
“Your pussy is throbbing right now, isn’t it?” I struggle to maintain eye contact, my orgasm building so fast as she watches. Her body gives her away, her thighs pressed tightly together as she begins to shift slightly side to side, her eyes watching my movements intently.
“You don’t have to wait any longer, baby. I know your mouth’s been watering for my cock, too, hasn’t it?” I don’t give her time to answer. Instead, I place the tip on her lips, pushing myself inside her mouth with a loud groan. “This is gonna be rough and fast, Eve, but it’s what I need.”
She looks up at me with big green eyes, nodding with her mouth already stuffed full of my cock. “That’s it, take me deep. Just like that.” I start slow, my hand gently resting on the back of her head as she bobs up and down my length. But the sound of her mouth taking me is pushing my limits, and when she adds a small little moan as I go deeper, it completely destroys any last shred of restraint.
I look down at her, lifting her chin slightly till her eyes meet mine. “I’m gonna fuck your mouth now. It’s gonna get rough for a minute, baby.”
My hands tangle in her hair, my fingers gripping her scalp as I push her head down hard and fast. She gags, gasping for breath as tears begin to stream down her face. I let myself go, unleashing a demonstration of dominance. Eve matches my intensity with her lips and tongue, sucking and lapping at my cock and the precum that dribbles down her throat.
“Oh, fuck.” I feel my control begin to slip, my balls tightening as she takes me so deep, I feel the back of her throat against my tip. “Jesus Christ, Eve,” I grunt, both hands now shoving her head down. “I’m coming.” I groan just as I spill myself down her throat.
“I should slit the throat of every man whose cock you’ve sucked before me.” I wipe a string of cum from her lips and note the mascara smeared down one cheek as she swallows the rest of my release.
I pull her to her feet and onto my lap in one swift move, my cock still hard. “Now I’m going to fuck you until I’ve had my fill.” Running my tongue over my fingers, I slide them over her pussy. “Oh, you don’t even need any help from me, do you?” I groan when I feel her weeping pussy.
She doesn’t have time to adjust before I’m sliding her down my cock as her nails dig into my biceps.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” she grimaces, her eyes squeezing shut as I force her down further.
“Good, you need to be reminded of who you belong to, Eve—whose pussy this is. Look at me,” I bark. Her eyes are heavy, but she drags her gaze back to me. “You are mine. My cock is the only cock that will ever be inside this cunt, do you understand me?” I slide my thumb into her mouth. “The only cock that ever touches these lips again. The only cum that will ever be inside you or on you is mine. Tell me, Eve.”
I’ve lost all control, and my fingers dig into her hips as I lift her body and slam it back down on my cock over and over again. Her cries echo around us—a mix of agony and pleasure as her body finally accepts me.
“I’m yours,” she pants, “only yours.”
“That’s right, I’m your god, your master, your everything.” My hand slides up her body, my fingers finding their way back around her throat. “Look at me, Eve. Don’t take your eyes off of me.” She nods, her body completely at my mercy as I fuck her over and over again. “I want to watch as you come on my cock.”
“I’m so close!” she cries, her desperate need for relief so evident as her body begins to shake uncontrollably. Her eyes stay on mine like I commanded, as her pussy walls clench around me, milking every last drop I have left to give her.
This seat of absolute power becomes the stage for our union—physical, emotional, spiritual. A small aftershock of pleasure courses through me, causing her to gasp softly against my neck.
“Again?” she whispers, surprise mingling with anticipation in her voice.
I tangle my fingers in her hair, gently pulling her head back to meet my gaze. The predatory smile that spreads across my face is answer enough.
“I’m just getting started with you.”