33. Angel
The private room is a cocoon, a sharp contrast to the bass-heavy chaos pulsating just on the other side of the door.
Damien moves with a precision that makes my breath hitch.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t tear at my clothes; he peels them away as if he’s unwrapping a precious, dangerous gift.
His fingers are large, calloused, and steady, tracing the lace of my top before he deftly undoes the zipper in the back.
The lace falls away, and his hands slide over my skin, leaving behind a trail of gooseflesh and fire.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice a gravelly vibration against my skin. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark, heavy, and hooded. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to get you into a room like this, just so I could see you stripped of everything but me.”
A minute later I’m left in nothing but the collar. The silver plate, engraved with his road name, sits heavy and cold against the pulse of my throat, but the leather band is warm from his touch. He reaches out, tracing the outline of the silver with his thumb.
“You’re mine, Angel,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Tonight and every night.”
I reach up, my hands trembling as I find the waistband of his jeans. He helps me, his movements fluid. When he’s bare, he looks like a statue carved from shadows and steel, every muscle defined in the low, ambient light. He guides me down to my knees, his hands resting on my shoulders.
“Worship me,” he commands, and it isn’t a request. It’s an invitation to lose myself.
I take him into my mouth, the taste of him sharp and familiar.
I focus on the rhythm, on the way his hands tangle into my hair, guiding me, keeping me steady.
His fingers are tight enough to be a firm tether, but he’s watching me with an intensity that feels like devotion.
He talks to me while I do it, his voice low, telling me exactly what I’m doing to him, how he feels, how much he wants me.
When he’s ready, he pulls me up. He lifts me onto the wide, velvet-covered bench in the corner of the room, my back against the wall. He steps between my legs, his hands sliding under my thighs to lift me higher.
He enters me slowly. It’s a deliberate, measured act. He pushes into me, inch by inch. “I’m filling you, Angel. You’re taking all of me. I’m going to make sure you feel every inch, every bit of my claim.”
His hands move to my throat. It’s not the terrifying pressure of the past; it’s a firm, controlled grip—a reminder of who has the power, and who holds the safety. He leans in, his nose brushing mine. “Are you with me?” he asks, his thumb tracing the pulse at my neck.
“I’m with you,” I gasp, my head falling back against the wall as he picks up the pace.
He moves with a strength that defies his gentleness, his hips slamming into mine with a primal cadence.
He’s taking me apart and putting me back together.
He talks about how he’s erasing the memories of what happened in London, how he’s overwriting the trauma with the feeling of him, of his strength, of his ownership. And he does.
“Focus on me,” he growls, his hand sliding down to grip my hip, his thumb digging into the soft flesh. “Only me. No one else ever existed. No one else ever touched you.”
The sensation is overwhelming. He’s everywhere—inside me, his hands on my skin, his voice in my ear.
He flips me, my chest hitting the velvet as he guides me onto my hands and knees.
The position feels more exposed, more vulnerable, but I’ve never felt safer.
He’s behind me, his hands firm on my back, guiding my hips.
“You look so good like this,” he says, his voice ragged. He’s panting, his control fraying at the edges. “My Angel. My beautiful, perfect wife. You were made for this. You were made for me.”
He thrusts deep, hitting a spot that makes me cry out. He stops, holding the depth, his chest pressed against my back, his breath hot against my neck. He waits until I’ve caught my breath, his hands soothing, rubbing circles into my skin, checking in with me without saying a word.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice surprisingly soft.
“Don’t stop,” I plead, turning my head to look back at him. His eyes are blown, his face flushed with the effort of holding back his own release.
He resumes, but the rhythm changes. It’s harder now, more frantic, more desperate. It’s a dark, beautiful symphony of dominance.
Then, he stops. He pulls out, his breathing ragged. He grabs my waist and flips me, pushing me back until I’m sitting on the edge of the velvet bench. He stands between my legs, his eyes burning into mine.
“Ride me,” he orders.
I hesitate, knowing exactly what this means to him. “Damien...”
He doesn’t wait for the protest. His hand moves to my thigh, delivering a sharp, stinging slap that makes me gasp. “I said ride me, Angel. Do as I say. Take control. Use me.”
The sting of the slap is hot, but the command is hotter. He’s letting me have the power. He’s letting me dictate the pace, letting me be the one to drive the rhythm, and for a man who needs control the way he needs oxygen, this is the ultimate act of trust.
I scramble up, straddling his waist. I grasp his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as I lower myself onto him. The feeling of him, thick and heavy, fills me completely. I arch my back, a shudder passing through me.
He groans, his hands finding my hips to guide me. “Yeah,” he says, his voice sounding like broken glass. “That’s it. Use me, Angel. I’m yours.”
I begin to move. It starts slow, a tentative grinding, but as the rhythm takes hold, I get bolder. I set the pace. I decide how deep, how fast, how hard. I watch his face as I do it—the way his eyes roll back, the way his jaw tightens, the way his breath hitches in his throat.
I see the shock on his features. It’s a look of profound, almost painful pleasure.
He’s not used to this. He’s not used to surrendering the driver’s seat.
But as I speed up, as I ride him with a confidence I didn’t know I possessed, I see the resistance melt away.
He’s not just letting me do it; he’s craving it.
He’s hooked on the feeling of me taking what I want.
“God,” he rasps, his hands clenching in my hair, pulling my head down so he can kiss me. “I never... I never let a woman do this. I never wanted to. But with you? I want you to destroy me. I want you to use every bit of me until there’s nothing left.”
The confession hits me harder than the physical pleasure. He’s giving me the one thing he’s guarded for years: his vulnerability. He’s letting me dominate him, letting me hold the power in this room, and the weight of that gift is almost too much to bear.
I speed up, my hair whipping around my face.
The world outside the room doesn’t exist.
There is only the friction of skin against skin, the sound of our ragged breathing, and the absolute, undeniable connection between us.
I’m not the girl who was broken. I’m the woman who is breaking and remaking my husband, piece by beautiful piece.
“Angel,” he warns, his grip on my hips tightening. “Angel, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
I don’t. I push harder, faster, until the room begins to tilt. I can feel the tension coiling inside me, a spring winding tighter and tighter. He’s watching me, his eyes locked on mine, his entire existence focused on my pleasure.
“Come for me,” he says, his voice a low, commanding rumble. “Show me how much you belong to me.”
The climax hits me with the force of a tidal wave.
It starts in my toes and surges up my core, a shattering, white-hot explosion that makes me scream his name.
My body contracts, my inner muscles clenching around him, milking him, and I feel him shatter right along with me.
He lets out a primal roar, his body jerking against mine as he empties himself, his hands locking onto my hips as if he’s trying to fuse us together.
We collapse then. I fall forward, my face buried in the crook of his neck, my heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He catches me, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me flush against his chest.
We stay like that for a long time, the only sound the ragged, synchronized gasps of our breathing and the dull thrum of the bass through the floorboards.
He doesn’t let go. He keeps his arms wrapped tight around me, his hand tracing soothing patterns up and down my spine.
“You okay, baby?” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Better than okay,” I murmur, my voice sounding distant, like it belongs to someone else.
He kisses my temple, his hand coming up to cup my face. “I told you. I’m erasing it all. You’re mine, Angel.”