Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
MARLOWE
Ican’t do a damn thing but feel him.
Damian’s mouth is slow. Intense. He kisses down my stomach like he’s memorizing every inch, every freckle, every uneven breath I take.
His hands roam my thighs, spreading me open, holding me down when I try to move.
And his lips follow—soft, hot kisses to the inside of my knee, the curve of my calf, the dip behind my ankle.
Everywhere but where I ache for him the most.
He knows what he’s doing. Knows exactly how desperate I’m getting. My hips keep trying to rise, to chase his mouth, to guide him where I need him, but he just smirks against my skin and keeps moving lower. Or worse—backs off.
“Damian,” I gasp, arching my back, straining against the headboard. “Please.”
But he doesn’t give in. He kisses the inside of my thigh like it’s sacred, drags his tongue along the delicate skin, then nips just high enough to make me whimper—but still not where I need.
My body is on fire. Every nerve is lit up and begging. I feel like I’m going to snap in half if he doesn’t touch me, really touch me, but he just keeps taking his time, like he’s savoring the wait.
“Damian,” I cry, voice breaking on his name. “Please. I need you.”
He looks up at me then, eyes dark and wild, mouth inches from where I’m soaking for him.
And he fucking smiles. “Not yet, Angel,” he says, voice rough. “I want you trembling. I want you to beg me like you mean it.”
And God help me… I will.
His hands grip my thighs again, firmer this time, and he pushes them open—wide. Completely exposed, completely his. The air against the wet fabric between my legs makes me shiver, makes the need coil tighter and tighter inside me.
I watch him—watch his eyes drag over me like he’s starving and I’m the only thing on the table to eat. My chest rises and falls like I’ve run miles, but I haven’t moved at all. He’s done that—just him.
One hand stays planted on my thigh, grounding me, keeping me exactly where he wants me. The other shifts lower. His knuckle brushes over the wet center of my panties—once, so lightly I almost convince myself I imagined it.
I suck in a breath.
He does it again. Up, down. A feather-soft drag over the soaked fabric that makes my hips jolt, makes my fingers clench where they’re tied above me.
“Fuck,” I whisper, already half-gone.
He hums low in his throat like he likes the way I sound. Then he switches—his knuckle replaced with the pad of his finger. A soft, slow stroke over the damp lace, right where I’m throbbing. He keeps it maddeningly light, like a whisper, like he knows exactly how to make me beg without even trying.
I can feel how wet I am—can see the way he looks at it, like it’s a gift. Like he’s about to unwrap it, but not yet. Not until I’m delirious with want.
He drags his finger over me again, and again, teasing, circling, brushing up just enough pressure to make me cry out but never enough to give me what I need.
My thighs tremble. My whole body feels like it’s suspended by a thread, and he’s holding the scissors.
“Damian, please—” I gasp, voice breaking.
He leans in, mouth close to the edge of my underwear, lips brushing the fabric without kissing, without touching, and says:
“I want you soaked. Shaking. Dripping for me. You think you’re desperate now?” His finger trails even softer between my legs. “You haven’t been desperate yet.”
I whimper, hips rising instinctively toward his touch, but he presses one strong hand down on my stomach, holding me still. My wrists strain against the bra tied to the headboard, but I can’t move. I’m wide open, trembling, already soaked through, and he hasn’t even really touched me yet.
His finger traces the length of me again, firmer this time, dragging over the wet fabric that clings to my skin, and it’s begging to be pulled aside. I’m throbbing under his hand, the ache between my legs deep and relentless. My body is on fire, desperate for friction, for pressure, for him.
And then he finally does it.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties and pulls—slowly, like he wants me to feel every inch of the fabric sliding down my thighs. I gasp as the cool air hits me, bare and soaked, and his groan is deep and guttural when he sees me.
“Jesus Christ, Lo,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Look how wet you are for my cock.”
He pushes my thighs farther apart, spreading me wide until I’m shaking, exposed, aching so badly I feel like I might come just from his eyes alone.
Then he touches me.
One finger—just the tip—presses into my slickness. He drags it up slowly, parting me with such devastating gentleness I forget how to breathe. He circles my clit once—soft, slow, unbearable.
My whole body jolts. “Damian—” It’s not even a word anymore. It’s a plea wrapped in a sob.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t speed up. Just keeps circling, stroking, teasing me with maddening precision. “Look at you,” he growls. “Tied up, trembling, soaked for me. You’re perfect.”
His mouth follows next—hot breath against my thigh, then finally, finally, he licks a slow line from the bottom of my slit up to my clit, so softly I cry out.
My head falls back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut, hips bucking involuntarily—but he pins me down harder, his arm slung across my waist, holding me there while his tongue flicks, strokes, devours.
Every soft suck. Every press of his tongue. Every filthy sound he makes into me—he’s unraveling me with it. He reaches for something on the bed, and it takes me a second to realize what it is—my panties, still damp and warm from everything he’s done to me.
“Spread your legs wider,” he says, low and calm, but there’s a command beneath it that makes me obey without question.
I do.
And he slides the soft, soaked fabric between my thighs.
I gasp—my hips twitch from the sudden friction as the lace presses against my clit, dragging across it slowly. He watches me as he does it, eyes dark and locked on mine, reading every reaction.
Up. Down. A soft stroke, a cruel tease, the kind that makes me whimper and strain against the headboard like I’m losing control.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice thick. “That’s how wet you are for me.”
I choke on a moan as he rubs the lace over me again, slick and maddening.
“Look at this, Lo.” He lifts the panties slowly, holding the soaked fabric between two fingers like a prize. “You’re fucking dripping.”
He doesn’t give me time to recover. He brings the lace to my mouth and brushes it across my lips. My breath hitches.
“Open,” he says.
My lips part. I don’t even think—I just obey.
He presses the damp cotton between them, lets me taste myself, lets me feel how desperate I’ve become under his hands, his mouth, his words.
“You taste that?” he whispers, voice so close it vibrates against my throat. “That’s what need tastes like. My favorite taste in the world.”
I moan, half in shame, half in total surrender.
I want him everywhere. I can’t even form a thought—just raw, pulsing need—but Damian isn’t done.
He leans back on his heels, eyes dark and hungry as he takes in the glistening heat between my thighs.
Then, without warning, he spits—thick, hot—and it lands right on my slick clit with a sharp, wet smack.
“I want you messy for me,” he growls, dragging two fingers through the slick mix of spit and arousal.
He strokes up, then down, parting me with gentle cruelty, brushing over every sensitive inch—but never giving me enough.
My breath hitches, body arching up as he presses a single fingertip into the spit-soaked heat. He drags it slowly through my wetness, watching the way my body trembles from just that.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he murmurs, low and rough.
“Hard. Deep. Right inside this perfect, soaked little pussy.” His voice drops lower.
“First with my fingers…” He slips one inside me, and my hips jerk at the stretch.
Then two. The burn is sharp, perfect. My wrists pull against the headboard as I try to breathe through the pressure, the ache of how full I’m getting.
Then he adds a third, curling them just right, and I cry out from the intense pleasure of it. But he doesn’t stop.
“You’re so tight,” he growls. “Take it. Stretch for me, Angel. I want you wide open when I finally slide my cock into you.”
And then—four.
My back arches. My thighs shake. The stretch is intense, my body trying to adjust, to take all of him, all of this, and it’s so fucking good I don’t want him to stop. Not for a second.
His free hand presses down on my stomach, keeping me in place as he thrusts his fingers in deeper, slow and firm. His eyes are locked on the way my body swallows every inch he gives me.
“You like that?” he whispers. “All my fingers in your pussy?”
I moan—filled, helpless, overwhelmed. My mouth is open, gasping, my chest rising and falling like I’ve been sprinting, but all I can do is take it. Take him.
He shifts, adjusts his hand, and then he starts to move—fast. Hard.
His fingers drive into me in quick, punishing thrusts, filling me so deep, so perfectly, I feel like I’m going to come instantly.
Wet sounds fill the room, slick and filthy, every thrust pushing me higher, dragging me closer to that impossible edge.
My head thrashes against the pillows, wrists straining at the tie, thighs twitching wildly as the heat coils tighter and tighter inside me, unbearable and white-hot. I’m shaking, every muscle locked, my voice breaking with ragged little gasps.
“Damian—fuck—I’m gonna—”
I don’t get to finish. He stops. Just—pulls his fingers out like he was never there at all.
The sudden absence is violent. My whole body jerks.
My thighs try to snap shut, desperate for friction, for anything, but he’s already there—gripping them, spreading me wide again, holding me open like he owns me.
“No,” he growls, low and merciless. “You don’t come until I say. You don’t come until I make you.”