He was declaring war.
On her.
On every ounce of control I thought I had left.
On the air in my lungs.
“She moans like a f*****g angel,” he went on, his hand sliding down from my waist, fingers pressing right into the curve of my hip like he was remembering exactly how he holds me when I’m writhing beneath him. “She cries when she comes. Not because she’s in pain—but because it’s too good. Because I f**k her until she breaks.”
I gasped.
Not out loud.
Not dramatically.
Just a tiny little inhale that hitched in my throat like I was choking on my own arousal. I felt hot all over. Too hot. Like my skin didn’t fit right. Like his words were peeling every layer of me off until I was raw and needy and shameless.
“I don’t use her,” Damon continued, his voice darker now, a cruel kind of pri
