One bright pink bottle. Strawberry flavored.
I gape at him with my mouth fully open, eyes wide, brain short-circuiting into a purewhat the actual fuckstare. He holds it up between us like a trophy—or a threat—and tilts it just enough for me to read the label.
Sweet Heat. Warms on contact.
Then he meets my eyes. The look he gives me is kind that strips you down to nerve and instinct and leaves nothing polite behind. My stomach drops, my pulse skids, and suddenly the room feels smaller.
I swallow, already doomed, and he smiles like he knows it.
Then,without saying a single word, he turns his back to me and walks toward the bedroom like he didn’t just rob me of breath. He strolls past the view, the champagne, the ocean, and the very concept of subtlety, and disappears through the bedroom door like the devil come to collect.
I’m still standing in the doorway, covered in travel sweat, suitcase handles digging into my palms, staring at the empty space he just left behind.
And then I move. Bags drop like bodies, cane thuds to the floor. I kick off my shoes without bothering to aim. Something falls over. I don’t care. Because if he thinks he’s usingstrawberry heat lubewithout me present to document, worship, and possibly combust mid-thrust—he’s out of his fucking mind.
I sprint after him, half-tripping on the plush rug, my shirt catching on the doorframe as I barrel into the bedroom like a man possessed. The second I hit the doorway, I blurt it—high and desperate, voice already fraying at the edges. “Cap!”
Damian stops mid-step, turns slowly, and looks over his shoulder withthatlook. The one that makes my knees forgethow bones work. The one that makes my pulse trip, my breath hitch, my mouth dry out like I haven’t tasted him in days. That quiet, deliberate possession that rolls off him in waves.
I tear the tank top off so fast the seams pop, shimmy out of my shorts like they’re on fire, yank my briefs down and nearly trip in them. My foot catches, I stumble, curse under my breath, and finally kick them free with a huff. I’m already panting, already half-hard, already flushed head to toe and vibrating with need, standing naked in the middle of the honeymoon suite like I’ve lost every last functioning brain cell.
Damian watches the whole thing. His mouth curves—just a little. “Greedy,” he says.
I swallow, my hands twitching at my sides. “I’m on my honeymoon,” I say, trying not to whimper. “Aren’t I supposed to be?”
He turns the rest of the way, tosses the lube bottle onto the mattress behind him, and rolls his sleeves to his elbows.
I forget how to fucking breathe.
“Come here,” Damian says.
I move without thinking, legs carrying me forward like I’m tethered to him by something older than gravity. My skin feels too tight, my heart too loud, and my whole body hums with the knowledge that he could do anything right now and I’d thank him for it.
He doesn’t speak again. Just watches me come closer and when I’m standing in front of him, bare and aching, his gaze drags over me slowly—like he’s memorizing the state he left me in, like he’s building the next ruin in his head and deciding how loud he wants me to beg for it.
Then his hand lifts, his knuckles grazing my jaw first. A slow drag upward, over the curve of my cheek, until his fingers reach my curls and tangle there—just enough to hold. Just enough to make me shiver. His palm settles against my scalp and mybreath catches. And then—he pulls with enough tension to tilt my head back, to make me gasp and go pliant under the weight of it.
My knees threaten to give, my hands twitch at my sides, and my cock jumps like it heard a starter pistol. “Cap…” I breathe, already gone.
He tugs again—firmer this time—and turns, guiding me by the hair toward the bed like he’s leading a lamb to the altar. His grip isn’t cruel, but it’s sure. Possessive. His fingers weave tighter as we move, and the lube bottle bounces once on the mattress before he stops walking and gestures lazily with his free hand.
“Up.”
His hand never leaves my hair. Even as I crawl onto the mattress, even as the sheets crinkle under my knees and the air goes thick with heat, his grip stays. I shift forward, heart pounding, trying to brace myself, trying to catch my breath.
A firm tug pulls me back and then his other hand is at my waist, dragging me sideways, twisting me until I’m exactly where he wants me. My knees hit the edge of the bed, my chest presses to the mattress, and my ass goes up.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs.
My thighs tremble, my fists curl in the bedding, and my breath goes ragged when I hear the slick, unmistakableclickof the lube bottle opening behind me. I swallow hard, muscles already tightening, anticipation coiling in my gut.
I hear the lube shift, the bottle squeeze and I'm gone.
Slick and slow, two fingers drag lazy over the curve of my ass, spreading heat in a slow, reverent sweep. I bite down on the pillow, but Damian’s hand is back in my curls instantly, tugging just enough to make me moan.
“Easy, pup,” he murmurs. “We’ve got all night.”
His fingers dip lower, circling, painting lines of warmth and promise while I writhe under the touch like it’s already toomuch. My cock presses hard into the sheets, leaking against the fabric, and I can’t stop the noises tumbling out of me. Whimpers. Gasps. Broken little sounds I barely recognize as my own.
