Page 42 of The Beast Who Begged Me

I plan to take my time, to extract every ounce of self-control he’s still clinging to. So instead of going straight for his cock next, I rub my face into his ballsack. It’s hot velvet, heavy. Then slowly, deliberately, I flick my tongue out, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock.

A choked sound comes from above me. A hiss of breath. His hips twitch forward, a tiny, involuntary movement that he immediately stills.

I take one of those cum-heavy balls into my mouth, rolling it over my tongue. He shudders, and the sound of his breathing changes, becomes harsher. I suckle at him for a while, then move to the other one, giving it the same attention.

His fingers are white-knuckled against the wall by this time. But they haven’t moved. Not yet. I pull back, look up at him. His eyes are closed, his jaw clenched. He’s fighting it. Fighting me.

“Look at me,” I purr up at him.

The glare he gives me is full of hatred, but not the kind I’m used to seeing from him. It’s self-hatred, all mixed up with hunger. I lean in and pull his nuts into my mouth again, soaking him with my spit. His thighs are trembling slightly.

I track the thick, pulsing vein that runs along the underside of his shaft with the very tip of my tongue. He makes a soft sound and the muscles in his abdomen clench.

We’ll never find a way to make things better between us by talking. I can’t forgive. He can’t ask for it. But maybe we can reach a detente with our bodies.

I swirl my tongue around his cockhead, tracing out the hard ridge that always feels like it’s going to break my teeth when he fucks my mouth. Then I take the head into my mouth, sealing my lips around it and sucking hard, my tongue probing the sensitive slit at the tip.

That’s what does it.

One of his hands leaves the wall and buries itself in my hair, pulling me toward him. Not forcing me. Just holding me there. So I let out a muffled hum of satisfaction, letting him know he can do whatever the hell he wants to me.

He takes the invitation. His hips rock forward, pushing more of that thick dick into my mouth. I open up for him, my jaw aching, my throat stretching to accommodate him. I’m so much better at this than I was that first day in the basement…

I pull back, coughing.

He looks down at me, and for a moment I think he’s going to stop this whole thing. Going to pull me to my feet while he puts his dick away and tells me this was a bad idea. But all he does is tighten his hand in my hair, tugging until it’s uncomfortable, and I give an embarrassing mewl of pleasure.

“You’re thinking too much,” he growls, and he grabs my jaw with his other hand, holding me still. His thumb presses into the tender spot just below my ear. “Stop it.”

I try to nod, but his grip is too firm.

“Get it wet,” he commands. “All of it. I want to feel your spit dripping off my balls.”

It’s a command. Not a request.

And I have to stop myself from impaling my face on his dick then and there.

Instead, I let him feed me the head of his cock again, and I focus on suckling it, letting my spit pool in my mouth until it’s drooling out of the corners of my lips, down my chin. He watches me, his chest rising and falling as I work him over.

“That’s better,” he says, and he pushes more of himself into my mouth. I take it, my throat relaxing, my tongue flattened against the bottom of his shaft to make a tight, wet sheath for him. He starts to move then, a slow, steady rocking of his hips that has me taking more and more of him, until the head of his cock is bumping against the back of my throat and my eyes are streaming.

His hands cup my face, thumbs smoothing away the tears as he fucks deeper into my throat.

He’s not looking at the camera. He’s looking at me. I’m the one who feels that little red light like a third person in the room, a silent, watching judge. I wonder if anyone is watching this live. I imagine Finch lounging somewhere on velvet cushions, a glass of something pale and expensive in his hand, smirking as he watches.

There’s truly something wrong with me, because the idea of being watched makes me so much harder. Makes me take Dami’s cock even deeper.

I’m a mess of spit and pre-cum, my face sticky with it, my throat starting to complain. But he’s not stopping. His rhythm is an even glide in and out of my mouth. He’s hitting the back of my throat on every thrust now, and I’m taking it. I’m taking all of him, my lips stretched almost unbearably wide around the thick base of his cock, my nose teased and tickled by the coarse, dark hair at the root.

He pulls out suddenly, leaving me gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting my lower lip to the head of his dick. I look up at him, dazed, lips swollen and sore already.

As he looks down at me, for just a second, he’s not Damiano the Guilt-Stricken or the Protector or the Beast.

He’s just the man who wants to ruin me, wants to empty his load into me until I drown in it.

And I want that, too.

But first I want something more from him.