And then—I feel him lean in, his chest brushing my back and his lips ghosting my ear. “You start begging,” he says, low and lethal, “and I might not make you wait.”
I immediately whimper because I'm a sucker for him.
The first finger slips in and I suck in a breath, grip the sheets tighter, and arch instinctively—but the hand still tangled in my curls pulls tight, anchoring me in place with a gentle menace that makes my brain go static. The pressure deepens. The stretch is just enough to make me squirm, to make my hips twitch forward in search of friction I’m not allowed to have.
Damian hums behind me. “Greedy,” he says again, a murmur against the base of my spine. “Didn’t even ask.”
“I thought—fuck—I thought we were past asking.”
He pushes deeper and I moan. The kind of sound that echoes off the walls and would definitely get us kicked out if anyone was walking past our suite.
He leans in then, close enough that I feel his breath fan over the curve of my back. His voice is soft, but it cuts straight through me. “You’re on your knees, dripping on hotel sheets, and you still think you’re the one calling the shots?”
His second finger slips in beside the first, making me gasp—sharp and wrecked—and he groans low like he’s the one being undone by it.
I want to buck. Want to thrust back onto his hand and chase the burn, the fullness, the goddamneverythingI’ve been aching for since the second he smirked in the lobby. But I don’t. Because he told me not to move. So I press my forehead into the mattress and breathe through the slow, deliberate rhythm of his fingers opening me up with maddening control.
“Good boy,” he says, and I swear my vision goes white at the edges.
His hand in my hair tightens again, dragging my head back just enough to bare my throat to the air. His fingers fuck into me deeper, slow but unrelenting, and every curl of them sends sparks up my spine.
“You gonna come like this?” he asks, voice filthy and calm. “Just from my hand? Gonna soak my fingers before I even get inside you?”
My mouth is open, but nothing comes out—just gasps and moans and little helpless sounds that probably don’t qualify as English anymore.
“Hmm,” he says, thoughtful now. “Maybe I won’t fuck you yet. Maybe I’ll edge you like this for an hour. Two. Until you’re sobbing into the pillows, begging me to ruin our wedding sheets.”
“Cap,” I gasp, wrecked. “Please—”
He twists his wrist. Hits something inside me that makes me see stars. And then, softly—like a kiss and a warning all in one—“Beg prettier than that, pup.”
If NHL money is good, coach money is fucking criminal—the kind that buys silence by the acre, privacy measured in shoreline instead of square footage. A stretch of beach untouched by tourists unfurls in front of us, water so clear it makes diamonds look dull, palm trees spaced just far enough apart to keep the sand cool beneath their shade. Behind us, the villa looms all clean stone and glass, so oversized it probably has more square footage than our entire goddamn arena.
I don’t give a fuck about any of it.
Not the view. Not the house. Not the champagne sweating on ice or the butler who nearly tripped over himself this morning trying to figure out whether I wanted breakfast delivered on a tray or ferried in by boat like we’re characters in a rich-people fever dream. None of it registers past a passing acknowledgment that it exists.
Because Elias is in my lap. His weight settled into me like it belongs there, like it always has. I can feel his breath, the subtle shift of his body as he relaxes, the way he fits without effort,and that’s all that matters. The world can keep its ocean and its money and its quiet luxury.
This—him right here—is more than enough.
He’s straddling me on the blanket, thighs bracketing my hips, curls wild from the wind and the salt and the fact that I ruined him last night and didn’t stop until he couldn’t speak. His skin is sun-warmed, slick at the edges from heat and sweat and coconut oil he slathered on before dragging me out here. He’s in tiny swim trunks that should be illegal. One ofmytanks, oversized and loose and slipping off one shoulder every time he moves. And right now he’s feeding me fucking mango. Like I’m some beast he tamed with sugar and thighs and vows whispered in the dark.
“Open,” he says, smirking, holding up a sticky slice.
I narrow my eyes. “We’re in public.”
“It’sprivate,” he counters, swaying his hips just enough to grind down on me through the thin layers of fabric. His voice drops to a purr. “Unless you’re planning to put on a show.”
I take the mango from his fingers, suck it into my mouth slowly, and never break eye contact. He watches my lips, his pupils blowing wide, and his breath hitches just the tiniest bit. Victory.
He squirms in my lap, smug little shit, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Which he does, as always. Even when he pretends to play innocent—especially then.
“You’re handsy today,” I murmur, sliding one hand up under the hem of the tank top. His skin’s hot to the touch, smooth and marked in places where I know my fingers bruised him the night before. “What happened to being sore?”
“Iamsore,” he says with a dramatic gasp. “But I’m also insatiable. You married this.”
“I noticed,” I say dryly.
