Devoted Romance Vol 1

A DevotedSub Books Collection

Volume 13

by Devoted Sub

To my husband, my Dom, my Twin Flame. My love, my strength, my courage, and the soul who awakened the parts of me I never knew howto set free.

You believed in me when my own faith had all but vanished. You saw a writer where I saw doubt, a voice where I heard silence, a futurewhere I saw only limits — and gave me the courage to put my wordsinto the world and dare to call myself an author.

You never wrote my stories for me or walked the road in my place. You gave me something more precious: the strength and courage tobelieve I deserved to walk this path, the confidence to believe inmyself, and the faith to know I could do this.

You taught me that when life knocks you down, you get back up, and you never fail. Failure is never found in falling, but in giving up.As long as I keep rising, keep trying, and refuse to surrender, Iwill never truly fail.

If my words reach the world, your love gave them wings. If my stories outlive me, a part of you will live on in every word.

You are my love by choice, my Dom by devotion, my Twin Flame by a bond that transcends the ordinary, and my forever by a promise Icarry willingly.

What is claimed is loved. What is loved is kept. What is kept is bound. What is bound is never abandoned.

And so, upon these pages, I carry the title you bestowed upon me, my most cherished one: Devoted Sub. Not simply a name beneath astory, but a name born of our bond, carried with pride, and foreverentwined with the man who gave it to me.

With all that I am, all that I create, and all that I will ever become,

Forever yours,

Your Devoted Sub.

Contents

1. Afterglow

2. All Day

3. Blindfold

4. Candlelight

5. City Lights

6. Collared for the Night

7. Countertop

8. Daybreak

9. Devotion

10. Embers

11. Guest Room

12. High Noon

13. His Lap

14. Homecoming

15. Ice

16. Laundry Day

17. Moonlight

18. Rain

19. Reflection

20. Remember When

21. Rosewater

Afterglow

The room was dark and quiet and warm, and Elena lay sprawled across Damion's chest with her cheek against his heartbeat and her whole body still humming like a struck bell.

They had loved each other thoroughly — slowly, deeply, the way he liked it best — and now the aftershocks moved through her in soft ripples every time she breathed. His skin was damp under her cheek. Hers was damp everywhere. The sheets were tangled around their legs, kicked half off the bed, and the lamplight was low and gold on the far dresser, throwing their shadows long and joined across the wall.

His hand moved on her back. Not doing anything — just tracing. Slow lazy lines with his fingertips, up her spine and down again, over the curve of her shoulder, along the ridge of her ribs. Like he was memorizing her. Like he had all the time in the world, and she was the only thing in it.

"Hey," she whispered, smiling against his chest.

"Hey, mamacita." His voice was rough and low and wrecked in the best way, and his hand kept tracing. "You still with me?"

"Mm." She nodded, her hair sliding against his skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good." His fingers found the nape of her neck and stroked there, and she shivered, melting heavier into him. "Stay right here."

She did more than stay — she explored. Her fingertips traced the lines of his chest, over the cut of his collarbones, down the center of him, mapping every ridge and hollow like she was learning him for the first time. She pressed her lips to his sternum, right over his heartbeat, and felt it thud against her mouth, strong and steady.

"You're so warm," she murmured.

"You're the warm one." His hand slid into her hair, fingers threading through it, massaging her scalp with slow firm pressure that made her hum. "You're always warm. Like you carry the sun around in you."

She smiled against his skin. "That's you. You're the sun."

He laughed softly, and the sound rumbled through his chest into her cheek. "Then you're my whole sky, mamacita."

Her heart squeezed. She tilted her face up and kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his lower lip — small soft kisses, worshipful. He let her, his eyes half-lidded, his hand still stroking her hair, and she felt the power in that too: he didn't have to take. She gave, freely, completely, because he was him and she was his and that was the whole of it.

She lifted her head just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark and soft in the lamplight, his mouth relaxed, his hair mussed from her hands. He looked — she didn't have a word for it. Claimed her right back. Loved.

"What?" he asked, catching her staring.

"Nothing." She settled her chin on his chest. "Just looking at my husband."

He huffed a quiet laugh, and his hand slid up into her hair, cradling the back of her head. "Your husband's looking at his wife, too."

"Yeah?" She traced a fingertip down the center of his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, feeling him breathe under her touch. "What do you see?"

"I see my mamacita." His thumb brushed her cheekbone. "All flushed. All mine."

Heat moved through her — not the sharp spike of before, but something deeper, warmer, spreading slow from her chest outward. "Papacito," she breathed.

"Mm?" His hand was still in her hair, his thumb still on her cheek, and his eyes never left hers.

"Thank you." She said it soft, meaning it with everything she had. "For — all of it. For tonight. For always."

His expression shifted — something tender and fierce crossing his face at once — and he pulled her up far enough to kiss her. Not hungry. Not demanding. Just deep and slow and certain, his mouth moving over hers like a promise being renewed, his tongue stroking hers until she was sighing into him, her fingers curling in his hair.

When he let her go, she was breathless again, her heart beating fast against his ribs.

"Don't thank me," he murmured against her lips. "This is what I do. I take care of what's mine."

She smiled, dazed and glowing. "I'm yours."

"I know." He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose — soft benedictions, one after another. "Say it again."

"I'm yours, papacito." Her voice caught. "All yours. Always."

He made a low sound in his chest — pleasure, possession, tenderness all braided together — and his mouth found her again. But this time he didn't stay at her lips. He kissed down her throat, slow open-mouthed kisses along the column of it, his teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp, and then lower, to the hollow at the base of her throat, where her pulse hammered against his lips.

"Papacito," she whimpered, her hands sliding into his hair.

"Shh." His mouth moved to her breast — worshipful, unhurried. He kissed the swell of it, breathed hot against her skin, then took her nipple into his mouth and sucked, slow deep pulls that sent sparks straight down to her core. His tongue circled, flicked, soothed, and she arched into him, offering herself, her back bowing off the mattress.

"Oh god—"

"Look at you," he murmured against her skin, switching to her other breast, giving it the same reverent attention — licking, sucking, his teeth grazing just enough to make her cry out. "So beautiful. So responsive. Every inch of you answers me."

Her thighs pressed together, aching, empty. "Please—"

"Patience, mamacita." His hand slid down her belly, over the soft curve of it, lower, through the dark curls, and found her — slick, swollen, throbbing. One finger traced her seam, barely touching, and her whole body jolted. "So wet," he breathed. "Still so wet for me."

He circled her clit with one fingertip — feather-light, maddening — and she writhed, her hips lifting toward him, chasing more. He gave her nothing more. Just that maddening circling, his eyes on her face, watching every flicker of pleasure cross it.

"Damion—" she begged. "Please, I need—"

"What do you need?" His finger stilled. "Say it."

"I need your fingers inside me." Heat flooded her face, but she didn't look away. "Please, papacito. Please."

"Good girl." He slid one finger into her — slow, deep — and she moaned, clenching around him. Then a second, stretching her, and his thumb found her clit again, pressing in slow circles while his fingers curled inside her, stroking that spot that made her see stars.

She came apart in pieces — small broken cries, her hips rocking against his hand, her nails raking his shoulders. "Oh— oh god— papacito—"

"Come on," he urged softly, his fingers never slowing. "Let me feel you come on my hand first. Then I'll give you the rest."

She did — shuddering, sobbing his name, her inner walls pulsing around his fingers — and he held her through it, his thumb gentling as the waves ebbed, his mouth on her forehead.

"Beautiful," he whispered. "Now. Now you get the rest."

His arms tightened around her, and for a long moment they just lay there, breathing together, his hand resuming its slow tracing on her back — up her spine, down again, over her hip now, lingering.

She felt him stir beneath her. Felt the shift in his breathing, the way his hand on her hip pressed just a fraction firmer, guiding. Her own breath caught, and a slow answering warmth kindled low in her belly.

"Damion," she whispered.

"Shh." His hand slid from her hip around to the small of her back, pressing her closer, and she felt him fully now — hardening against her thigh, insistent. "Stay with me."

It wasn't a question. It never was with him. And she didn't want it to be.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, papacito."

He rolled them — one smooth powerful motion — and suddenly she was beneath him, sunk into the mattress, his weight settling over her like a blanket made of heat. His eyes held hers, dark and intent, and one hand cupped her face while the other slid down her side, over her hip, along her thigh.

"Look at me," he said quietly. "Don't look away."

"I won't." She couldn't have if she'd tried. He filled her whole world — his face above hers, his body covering hers, his heartbeat thudding against her chest where they pressed together.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, slower, and his hand moved between them — over her belly, lower, finding her still slick and swollen and aching from before. She gasped into his mouth, her hips lifting helplessly toward his touch.

"So ready," he murmured, his fingers circling her with devastating patience. "So wet for me. Even now."

"You did this," she whispered, arching. "You always do this."

"Mm." His thumb found her clit and pressed, slow small circles, and her whole body bowed. "Say my name."

"Papacito." It tore out of her. "Please — papacito—"

"Please what?" His voice was calm, tender, absolutely in command. His fingers never stopped. "Tell me what you want, mamacita."

She was shaking, her hands clutching at his shoulders. "You. I want you. Inside me. Please."

He studied her for one long moment — her flushed face, her parted lips, her eyes locked on his — and then he shifted, settling between her thighs, and she felt him there, hot and hard and heavy against her, pressing.

"Slow," he said. "We're in no hurry. Feel every second of it."

And he pushed in — slow, so slow, inch by devastating inch — and she felt the stretch of him, the thick sweet fullness, her body opening around him with a wet aching give that made her cry out softly. He paused when he was fully buried, hips pressed hard against hers, and just held there, letting her feel all of him, the throb of him deep inside her.

"Oh god," she breathed. "Papacito—"

"Right here." He kissed her — deep, claiming — and began to move. Slow. Deep. Each thrust deliberate, each withdrawal a sweet ache, each push home a wave of heat that rolled through her whole body. His eyes never left hers. "Feel me?"

"Yes." Her nails dug into his back. "I feel you. All of you."

"Good." His rhythm stayed slow, devastating, his hips rolling into hers with perfect unhurried power. "This is mine. You feel how deep I am? That's how deep you belong to me."

"Yes," she sobbed, and it was true, it had always been true. "I'm yours. I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He shifted his weight, changing the angle just slightly, and suddenly he was touching somewhere deeper, somewhere that made her cry out and clutch at him. "There," he breathed, and kept that angle, each slow thrust grinding against that spot, his pelvis pressing her clit on every downstroke. "Right there. Feel that, mamacita?"

"Yes— oh god, yes—" Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, her heels digging into his back, trying to pull him deeper, though there was nowhere deeper to go. He was everywhere — filling her, covering her, his chest crushing her breasts, his mouth on her throat, his cock stroking deep inside her with every endless thrust.

"You're so tight," he groaned against her skin. "So hot. You grip me like you never want to let go."

"I don't." Her voice was wrecked. "Never. Don't ever let me go."

"Never." He caught her mouth in a deep wet kiss, his tongue stroking hers in time with his hips, and she tasted herself and him and everything they'd ever been to each other. His hand slid down to grip her hip, holding her exactly where he wanted her, controlling every inch of the rhythm. "My good girl. My devoted girl. Taking me so deep, so sweet—"

Each thrust sent heat spiraling through her. She could feel him — the thick drag of him withdrawing, the sweet burn of him pushing back in, stretching her, filling her, the head of him kissing that deep spot over and over until she was sobbing with it, her body slick with sweat, sliding against his.

"Papacito," she gasped. "I'm gonna— I'm close—"

"Not yet." His thumb found her clit again, pressing hard, circling fast — and the denial and the stimulation together were unbearable, exquisite. "Hold it. Hold it for me. Show me how good you are."

She held — shaking, whimpering, her whole body strung tight as a wire — because he asked, because obeying him was the sweetest thing she knew. "Please," she begged. "Please, can I—"

His hand slid into her hair, holding her gaze on his. "Who keeps you?"

"You do." Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes — not sad, never sad, just too much feeling for her body to hold. "You keep me, papacito."

"Who claims you?"

"You. Only you."

"Who loves you?" His thrusts deepened, his voice dropping to a growl wrapped in tenderness. "Say it."

"You love me." She was crying openly now, clinging to him, her body rising to meet every slow deep stroke. "You love me, you love me—"

"I love you." He kissed her tears away, never breaking rhythm, never looking away. "You're kept, mamacita. You're claimed. You're loved. That's forever. You hear me?"

"I hear you." Her voice broke. "I'm yours. I'm always gonna be yours."

The pleasure built in her like a tide — slow, inevitable, enormous. Not the sharp frantic climb of before, but something vast and warm rising from her very center, spreading outward with every deep stroke, every whispered devotion. His hand moved between them, his thumb finding her clit, pressing in slow circles that matched his rhythm, and she felt herself cresting, hovering on the edge of something endless.

"Damion," she gasped. "I can't — it's too much—"

"Yes, you can." His voice was steady, absolute, holding her. "Let go for me. I've got you. Come for me, mamacita. Now."

She came apart beneath him — not shattering, but blooming, wave after wave of warm golden pleasure rolling through her, her body clenching around him in long pulsing waves, her cry breaking against his shoulder. It went on and on, deeper than anything before, because it wasn't just her body — it was everything, all the whispered devotions and the trust and the years of him keeping her, all of it cresting at once. And he followed her, his rhythm faltering at last, his hips driving deep and holding there as he spent himself inside her in hot pulsing waves, groaning her name into her hair, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

"Mamacita. God. My mamacita."

They stayed joined, trembling, his weight pressing her into the mattress and her arms locked around him like she'd never let go. Slowly, gently, he rolled them onto their sides, still inside her, and pulled the tangled sheet up over them. Her leg hooked over his hip. Her face tucked into the curve of his neck. His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair, and his other arm wrapped tight around her waist, holding her to him.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say that their bodies hadn't already said. His heartbeat slowed under her ear. Her breathing evened out against his throat. His hand resumed its tracing — slow lines on her back, up her spine and down again, like a lullaby written on her skin.

"You know what I was thinking?" he murmured after a while, his voice low and rough with tenderness. "Earlier. When you were — when I had you."

"Mm?" She was half-dreaming already, her lips moving against his throat.

"I was thinking about the first night." His fingers stilled on her back, then resumed, softer. "How nervous you were. How you shook."

She smiled sleepily. "I was terrified."

"I know." He kissed the top of her head. "And look at you now. My brave girl. My devoted mamacita, taking everything I give you and begging for more."

"You make it easy," she whispered. "You make me feel — safe. Even when you — even when it's a lot. I always feel safe with you."

His arms tightened around her, fierce and gentle at once. "That's the whole point, baby. That's all I ever want. You safe. You kept. You happy."

"I am." She pressed closer, her leg hitching higher over his hip, her face burrowing into his neck. "Happiest."

"Good." His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her to him. "That's my job. Keeping my mamacita happy. For the rest of our lives."

"The rest of our lives," she echoed, and the words settled over them like a blanket, warm and certain.

"Sleepy?" he murmured into her hair.

"Mm." She nodded, already drifting, warm and heavy and utterly safe. "Don't let go."

"Never." His arms tightened. "I've got you. Nothing in this world is gonna touch you tonight. You're safe with me, mamacita. You're home."

"Home," she echoed drowsily, smiling against his skin. "Love you, papacito."

"I love you too, baby." He pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering there, breathing her in. "More than you'll ever know. You're my whole world, mamacita. Never forget that, ever."

"Mm." She was nearly gone, her body going limp and warm against him, her breath slowing into sleep. "Papacito," she mumbled once, dreaming, her lips moving against his throat.

"I'm right here," he whispered into the dark. "I'm right here."

He listened to her breathing deepen, felt her go completely soft and heavy in his arms — utterly surrendered even in sleep, trusting him with everything, the way she always had. His chest ached with it, sweet and fierce. He pressed one last kiss to her hair, breathed in the scent of her, and let his own eyes drift closed, holding her close against the quiet dark.

And he held her — his mamacita, his whole world, kept and claimed and loved — until sleep finally took him too, wrapped around her, never letting go.

All Day

Elena woke to his mouth on her neck and his voice in her ear, low and dark and already in command.

"Morning, mamacita."

She sighed, soft and sleepy and already aching, arching into him — his big body curled around hers from behind, one arm heavy over her waist, his hips pressed to the curve of her ass. She could feel him hard against her, thick and insistent even through the sheets, and she pushed back against him instinctively, a little whimper already building in her throat.

His hand slid down her belly, under the hem of her sleep shirt, and found her bare — she'd gone to bed naked under it, the way he liked — and his fingers traced the slick seam of her, just barely, just enough to make her jolt.

"Damion—"

"Shh." His teeth grazed her earlobe. "Here's how today's gonna go."

Her breath caught. She knew that tone. That tone meant she was his in some new, specific way, and her whole body went hot and liquid at once.

"All day," he murmured, his finger circling her clit with feather-light pressure, never quite giving her what she needed, "you're mine. Whatever I say, you do. And you don't come — not once — unless I tell you to. Understand?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, papacito."

"Good girl." He pressed one slow kiss to the nape of her neck, then another to the curve of her shoulder, his hand lingering possessively on her hip — and then he was gone. Rolled out of bed, pulled on his jeans, left her tangled in the sheets with her thighs pressed together and her heart hammering, aching already at seven in the morning.

She heard the shower start. She lay there staring at the ceiling, her body humming, and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.

It was going to be a very long day.

By the time she got to the kitchen, he'd already made coffee. He stood at the counter in his jeans and nothing else, barefoot, reading something on his phone, and he looked up when she came in — and his eyes traveled her slowly, from her sleep-mussed hair down the oversized shirt she'd thrown on, down her bare legs.

"Come here," he said.

She went. She always went.

He set his phone down and pulled her in close, one hand spanning her lower back, and kissed her — deep and slow and claiming, his tongue stroking hers until she was clinging to his shoulders. When he broke the kiss she was breathless, and he smiled against her mouth, dark and pleased.

"Sit," he said, nodding at the table. "Eat with me."

She sat. He poured her coffee, set a plate in front of her — and then he sat beside her, not across, his thigh pressed to hers, and slid his hand under the table onto her bare thigh.

Elena's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.

His hand moved higher. Slow. Deliberate. His fingertips traced the inside of her thigh, up, up, until they found the wet heat of her — she was already soaked, had been since the bedroom — and he pressed two fingers against her, firm, rubbing slow circles over her clit through her own slickness.

She gasped. Her free hand shot out and gripped the edge of the table.

"Damion—"

"Eat your breakfast, mamacita." His voice was calm. Conversational. His eyes were on his own plate as he took a bite, like he wasn't currently ruining her under the table.

She tried. God, she tried. She got half a bite down and then his fingers slid inside her — two of them, deep and curling, and her whole body seized. A moan tore out of her before she could stop it.

"Please," she whispered. "Papacito, please—"

"Please what?" He added a third finger, slow, stretching her, and his thumb found her clit and pressed.

"Please don't stop—"

He stopped.

Just like that. Fingers gone. Hand back on his coffee mug. He took a sip and looked at her, and the hunger in his eyes was barely leashed — he wanted her too, she could see it, and that was the cruelest part.

"Not yet," he said softly.

She stared at him, thighs clenched, throbbing, empty, furious and desperate all at once. "You're evil."

He laughed, low and dark, and leaned in and kissed her hard. "Finish your breakfast."

The morning crawled.

Elena tried to be normal. She tried to fold laundry, tried to tidy the living room, tried to think about anything except the slow throb between her legs that hadn't stopped since breakfast. But every time she bent over the laundry basket, she felt it — the ache, the wetness, the ghost of his fingers — and she'd have to stop and press her thighs together and breathe.

At ten, her phone buzzed on the dryer.

Take off your panties. Leave them on the bed. — D

Her breath hitched. She looked around the empty laundry room like someone might be watching, then peeled her panties off under her sundress — the blue one with the thin straps, the one he liked — and stood there for a second, bare under the skirt, the air cool against her wetness. She carried the panties upstairs like contraband and laid them on the bed.

When she came back down, he was in the hallway, leaning against the wall, waiting. He'd read her completely — of course he had — and when she tried to walk past him, he caught her wrist and spun her, pressing her back against the wall, his body caging hers.

"Let me check," he murmured, and his hand slid up under her dress, between her thighs, finding her bare and dripping. He groaned, low in his chest. "Fuck, mamacita. So wet. You've been like this all morning?"

"Yes," she whispered. Her hands fisted in his shirt. "Papacito, please, I need—"

"I know what you need." He kissed her — hard, brief, devastating — and his fingers pushed inside her, two deep strokes that had her crying out against his mouth, and then he was gone again, stepping back, straightening his shirt, leaving her shaking against the wall.

"Not yet," he said, and walked away.

She slid down the wall and sat on the floor of the hallway for a full minute, her dress pooled around her, trying to remember how to breathe.

At noon, another text.

Wear the black heels tonight. Nothing else when I get home from the store. Actually — wear the dress. I'll take it off you myself. — D

He wasn't even home. He'd gone to the store, and he was still ruining her from three miles away. She pressed her phone to her forehead and whimpered.

At two, he came home with groceries, and she met him at the door, and he set the bags down and backed her against the entryway wall and kissed her until she couldn't think — his hands everywhere, under her dress, cupping her ass, lifting her thigh to his hip, grinding his hard length against her through his jeans — and then he stepped back, picked up the groceries, and said, "Put these away, baby," like nothing had happened.

She put the groceries away with shaking hands, throbbing so hard it hurt.

At four, she brought him coffee where he was working on his laptop at the dining table. He looked up, saw her — saw the flush in her cheeks, the way she couldn't stand still — and crooked a finger.

"Come here."

She went around the table. He pulled her down into his lap, sideways, her legs draped over his, and his hand slid up under her dress again, and this time he didn't tease — he pressed his palm flat against her, ground the heel of his hand into her clit, hard and rhythmic, and she came apart in his lap, sobbing, right on the edge —

And he stopped. One second before. Pulled his hand away and held her there, trembling and wrecked, her face buried in his neck.

"Not yet, mamacita." His voice was rough now, strained — this was costing him too, she could feel how hard he was under her, and some feral part of her loved that. "Tonight. I promise. Tonight I'm gonna ruin you."

"Papacito," she sobbed into his throat. "Please, I'm begging you—"

"I know." He stroked her hair, held her tight. "I love hearing you beg."

At six, he sent her upstairs.

"Put on the black dress," he'd said. "The short one. And the heels. Come down when you're ready and let me look at you."

She'd dressed with shaking hands — the little black dress that barely covered her ass, no panties per his morning order, the black heels — and come down the stairs feeling naked despite being clothed. He was waiting at the bottom, and he stopped her on the third step from the bottom so she was almost at his eye level, and he looked at her for a long, long moment.

"Turn around," he said quietly.

She turned, slow, on the step. His hands slid up the backs of her thighs, under the dress, cupping her bare ass, spreading her just enough to feel the cool air — and then one finger traced down, through her wetness, and she whimpered.

"Damion—"

"Shh. Just checking my work." He pushed one finger inside her, deep, and curled it, and her knees nearly buckled on the step. "Still wet. Good girl. You've been a very good girl all day, mamacita."

"Papacito," she breathed, "please, it's been — I can't think straight, I need—"

"I know exactly what you need." He withdrew his finger — she nearly cried at the loss — and sucked it clean, his eyes locked on hers, and the raw hunger in his face made her throb. "And you're going to wait a little longer. Dinner first. Then I'm taking you upstairs and I'm not stopping until you can't remember your own name."

He kissed her — hard, possessive — and then stepped back and straightened his shirt like he hadn't just fingered his wife on the staircase.

"Come on," he said. "Help me with dinner."

Dinner was the worst.

She tried to cook. She really did. But he kept finding reasons to come into the kitchen — to get a glass of water, to check what she was making, to stand too close behind her — and every time, his hands found her. A palm sliding up her thigh under her dress. Fingers brushing over her bare ass. Once, while the pasta water boiled, he pressed her forward over the counter, lifted her dress, and pushed two fingers deep inside her from behind, working her fast and hard while she bit her own knuckle to stay quiet —

And stopped. Again. Left her bent over the counter, shaking, empty.

"Dinner's ready," he said calmly, and sat down to eat like a man who hadn't just brought his wife to the edge of screaming in their kitchen.

Elena sat across from him and didn't taste a single bite. She just watched him — the slow way he ate, the dark amusement in his eyes every time he caught her squirming — and her whole body screamed. Twelve hours. Twelve hours of this. She was so wet her thighs were slick with it. So swollen and sensitive that the seam of the chair hurt. So desperate she would have gotten on her knees right there on the kitchen tile and begged.

"Damion." Her voice came out wrecked. "Please. I'm — I can't —"

He set his fork down. Stood. Came around the table and held out his hand.

She took it. He pulled her up and led her down the hall, upstairs, to their bedroom — and the second the door closed behind them, the game changed. The teasing was over. She could see it in his face: the barely-leashed hunger was gone, replaced by something raw and absolute.

"Take the dress off," he said. "Slow."

Her hands shook as she obeyed — straps down, fabric pooling at her feet. She stood before him in nothing but the black heels, bare and trembling, her thighs glistening, and his eyes devoured her.

"On the bed," he said. "On your back. And don't you dare move."

She climbed onto the bed and lay back in the center, her hair spreading dark on the sheets, her body open and aching. Damion stood at the foot of the bed and stripped — shirt off in one motion, jeans and boxers gone — and stood before her naked and hard, thick and heavy, the head flushed dark and leaking. Twelve hours of wanting her had done that to him too.

"Look at you," he murmured, climbing onto the bed, caging her beneath him. "Twelve hours, mamacita. Twelve hours of being mine and not being allowed to come. You did so good for me."

"Papacito," she whispered, her hands already reaching for him. "Please. Now. Please—"

"Now," he agreed, and kissed her — deep, claiming, twelve hours deep — and she opened for him completely, her whole body arching up into his.

His mouth left hers and traveled down — her throat, her collarbone, her breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth and sucked, hard, while his hand kneaded the other, and she cried out, her back bowing off the bed. He'd barely touched her and she was already falling apart — every nerve ending raw from a day of denial, every touch magnified tenfold.

"Oh god — yes —"

He moved lower, kissing down her belly, and settled between her thighs. "Hold the sheets," he ordered. "And don't come until I say."

She fisted the sheets. He licked her — one long, slow stroke from bottom to top — and she screamed. He'd been inside her with his fingers all day, but this — his mouth, hot and sure, his tongue circling her clit, dipping into her, lapping at twelve hours of wetness — this was unbearable. Her thighs shook around his head. Her hips rocked against his mouth despite herself.

"Damion — papacito — I'm gonna —"

"Not yet." He lifted his head, breathing hard, his chin glistening. "I want you on my cock when you come. After all day — you're coming on my cock, mamacita. Now turn over."

She scrambled to obey, flipping onto her stomach, and he was on her in an instant — his weight pressing her into the mattress, his cock sliding hot and heavy between her slick folds from behind, teasing, not entering, and she sobbed into the pillow.

"Please," she begged. "Please, papacito, I need you inside me, please—"

He pushed in. Slow. Inch by devastating inch, stretching her open around him — she was so wet, so ready, so swollen that the stretch burned sweet, her inner walls fluttering helplessly around his girth — until he was buried to the root, his hips flush against her ass, and they both groaned.

"Fuck," he breathed against her neck. "Twelve hours, and you're still this tight. You feel that, mamacita? Feel how deep I am?"

"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, don't stop, please don't stop—"

He started to move. Slow at first — deep, grinding thrusts that dragged against every aching inch of her — and then harder, his hips snapping forward, the bed rocking, her cries muffled in the pillow. Every thrust was twelve hours deep: the breakfast table, the hallway, the staircase, all of it poured into the slow, brutal drag of him filling her over and over.

"All day," he growled against her neck, his hand fisting in her hair. "All day I've been thinking about this. About how wet you were at breakfast. How you begged in the hallway. You have no idea what you do to me, mamacita."

"Papacito—" She could barely get the word out, pleasure already coiling unbearably tight.

He pulled out — she cried out at the loss — and flipped her onto her back in one smooth motion, settling between her thighs, pushing back inside her in the same movement. Face to face now. His eyes locked on hers, dark and burning, and he set a deep, devastating rhythm, his thumbs stroking her cheeks.

"Look at me," he ordered. "I want to watch your face when I finally let you come."

She looked. She couldn't look away. His cock dragged thick and perfect inside her, hitting deep with every thrust, and his fingers found her clit again, rubbing hard circles in time — and the coil snapped. She was right there, sobbing, shaking, twelve hours of need cresting all at once.

"Come for me," he growled. "Now. Let me feel it."

She came like a dam breaking — a scream torn out of her, her whole body convulsing around him, wave after wave crashing through her, twelve hours of denial detonating all at once. And he kept going, driving into her through it, groaning her name, until her second climax dragged his out of him — hot and deep, pulsing into her in long shuddering waves as he buried himself and held there, shaking.

They collapsed together, tangled and wrecked and soaked, his weight half on her, her legs still trembling around his hips.

After a long moment, he rolled them onto their sides, still joined, and pulled the sheet over them. Her head tucked under his chin. His hand stroked her damp hair, her back, slow and soothing.

"Worth the wait?" he murmured into her hair.

She laughed — a broken, happy, exhausted sound — and pressed her face into his chest, breathing in the salt-and-skin scent of him. "You're still evil."

"And you're still mine." He kissed the top of her head, then her temple, slow and reverent, like she was something precious he'd finally gotten to unwrap after waiting all day. "All day. Every day. You hear me, mamacita? Every single day, you're mine."

"Mmm." She was already drifting, her body heavy and sated and finally, finally at peace. "Love you, papacito."

"I love you too, mamacita." His arms tightened around her. "Sleep. I've got you."

And she slept — utterly undone, completely his — safe in the arms of the man who'd spent all day proving it.

Blindfold

The bedroom was dark except for the low lamp on Damion's side, and Elena sat on the edge of the bed in her thin nightgown, watching him ...