“Touch me again and I swear to God—”
“You’ll what?” I whisper, dragging my fingers a little lower. “Spank me in the spa?”
His hand shoots out, swats my wrist, and I yelp, half-laughing, half-horny. The therapist working on him clears her throat loudly, but I can tell she’s grinning too.
“You two,” she says, trying to stay firm. “If I have to separate your tables, I will.”
Damian mutters, “Please do.”
I blow him a kiss he can’t see and he growls again.
It’s a miracle we’re not banned already.
The second we’re out of the massage room, Damian grabs my wrist like he’s been waiting the whole damn hour to get me alone. No words. No warning. Just a sharp, possessive tug and that look in his eyes—the one that saysI let you play, now it’s my turn.
He drags me down the hallway like a man on a mission. The staff barely glance at us, probably used to couples getting handsy in the spa. But I know this isn’t about affection. This is aboutpunishment.
The sauna door creaks open, heat spilling out like a threat. I immediately try to turn around. “Cap—”
“Nope.” He shoves me gently but firmly inside. I stagger into the heavy warmth, blinking as my skin starts to prickle. The room smells like cedar and citrus. It’s dim, steamy,sweltering.
“Damian,” I pant, already sweating. “I’m gonna fucking die in here.”
“You’ll survive,” he murmurs, shutting the door behind us.
I collapse onto the wooden bench in a dramatic heap, fanning myself like an old lady in a church pew, glaring up at him. “If I pass out, you better mouth-to-mouth me with tongue.”
He doesn’t answer. He just walks over to the little shelf at the edge of the sauna—where some sadistic genius has arranged a row of tiny bottles—and starts setting them down next to me like he’s preparing for battle.
Massage oils. The slick kind. The warm-on-contact kind. Theyou’re not walking straight for a weekkind.
“Sir…” I whimper, eyes wide as I watch him pick one up and tip it slowly between his fingers, testing the weight, the glide. His eyes areglintingin the steam, hair sticking to his forehead, skin already glowing like a fucking god of punishment and sweat and pleasure.
“Mmm… yes, pup?” he says, too soft, too smug.
I shift on the bench, sweat sliding down my spine in rivulets. My towel feels like a noose. My knees are already trying to spread open on instinct.
Damian takes his time coming closer, the bottle loose in his hand like he knows exactly what it’s doing to me. The sauna heat is already wrecking me—skin slick, breath shallow, head light—but the way he watches me while he pours the oil into his palms is what really does it. He rubs his hands together, the faint scent blooming in the steam, and his eyes never leave my face. I swallow hard, knees parting without permission as my body gives me up before my mouth can.
He steps in between my legs and I feel smaller instantly, pinned on the narrow bench by nothing but his presence. His fingers hook into the edge of my towel and tug, baring me to the heat and to him, and I make a sound that’s halfway between a whine and a plea. The oil’s still warm on his hands when he reaches between my thighs, slick and sure, touching me like he owns every reaction I give him. I shudder, hips twitching, the bench creaking under me as I try not to melt straight into his grip.
Before I can beg, before I can even breathe properly, he leans in and kisses me. Slow. Deep. Distracting on purpose. His mouth steals the air from my lungs while his hand keeps working, gentle enough to lull me and firm enough to remind me exactly who’s in control. I cling to him, fingers curling into his shoulders, sweat and steam and oil blurring everything until all I know is his mouth and his hands and the way he’s smiling into the kiss like he’s already won.
His mouth stays on mine. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was trying to be sweet. But I do know him. I know that when Damian Kade kisses like this, he’sdistractingme. He’s luring me into softness so he can wreck me harder.
And holy fuck, it works.
His hands are still between my legs, one curled around my cock in a loose, teasing grip, the other sliding lower with slick precision. His thumb brushes just under the head, barely there, and my hips jerk against the bench. I gasp into his mouth, but he swallows it greedily, groaning low in his chest likeI’mthe one teasinghim.
Then his other hand shifts—right there—and I actually choke on my own breath. His fingers circle and press, slow and hot and merciless. I try to break the kiss, try to tell him I can’t take both, not like this, notherein the fucking sauna where I’m already lightheaded and overheating, but he doesn’t let me. He deepensthe kiss instead, tongue sliding against mine while his fingers start a rhythm that makes my entire spine try to arch off the bench.
My fingers scrabble for his shoulders, nails dragging through sweat and oil as I writhe. He’s going so slow it’s cruel, deliberately holding back while my whole body strains for more. My moans are muffled by his mouth, my whimpers swallowed, my knees falling open wider and wider until I’m spread for him completely and absolutely ruined.
When I finally manage to tear my lips from his, I’m gasping, trembling,sobbingout a “Cap—please—fuck, please—”
And he just hums like it’s music. “Love that sound,” he whispers, lips brushing my jaw. “Do it again.”
I don’t mean to. But I do. And it only makes him smirk wider.
