Sex With Damon

Sex With Damon
Chapter 49

I held him tight, and he equally held me to his chest, his face buried in my neck.

I didn't realize he wasn't all in until he pushed in deeper causing me to cry out, my knees almost giving out.

I gasped as he slammed into me again, harder this time, his pace rough, furious, like every thrust was punishment and surrender rolled into one. My back hit the wall with each movement, the vibration rattling my bones, but I couldn’t stop the needy moans spilling out of me.

God!!

With Damon, sex always felt better than the last. Every time he touched me, it felt like it was the first time all over again, only deeper, harder.

His grip on my thighs tightened, fingers digging so deep I knew he’d leave bruises, but God—I wanted those marks. I wanted him everywhere, claiming me in a way no one else ever could.

“Damon,” I whimpered, though I wasn’t sure if I was begging him to slow down or never stop.

His jaw clenched, his eyes burning into mine as he pistoned into me, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the room. “You drive me insane,” he rasped, his breath hot against my cheek. “I should hate you for this. For making me want you like this. But fuck—” He groaned, burying himself so deep inside me I thought I might break. “—I can’t stay away. I can't stop.”

I arched against him, my nails dragging down his back, leaving red trails over the hard planes of muscle. He hissed at the sting, then bit down on my shoulder, muffling his own guttural sound. The sharpness of his teeth only made my core clench tighter around him, dragging another moan from my lips.

Every movement was primal, wild, like we were both burning alive and the only way to survive was to consume each other whole. His hips snapped against mine in a brutal rhythm, and I matched him, grinding down, chasing every ounce of friction.

“Damon…” My voice cracked. I could feel the pressure building, curling low in my stomach, threatening to snap.

He pulled back just enough to look at me. His thumb brushed roughly against my clit, sending sparks of electricity shooting through me. “Come for me,” he ordered, his voice raw. “Come while you’re wrapped around me, Peach. I want to feel it. I want to know you’re mine, even if it kills me.”

The words shattered me. My body clamped down on him as waves of pleasure crashed over me, my cries muffled against his mouth as he kissed me through it—hungry and unrelenting, as if he wanted to swallow every sound I made.

The next second, he spun me around so fast my back slammed lightly against the door, the cool wood biting through my shirt. My legs were still shaking from release, my core throbbing, so the sudden shift made me gasp.

Before I could catch my breath, his hands shoved my wrists above my head, pinning me in place. My muscles protested, still quivering, but the look in his eyes silenced any thought of stopping.

“Damon—” I breathed, my voice ragged, but he was already pressing down on my lower back, forcing me to arch, my ass pushed back into the solid heat of his hips. The position left me bent just enough that every hard line of him slotted against me, hot and unyielding.

My body was still raw, overstimulated, and when he pushed back into me, the stretch made me whimper, half-pain, half-desperate pleasure. The first thrust drove me forward into the door, the impact rattling it in its frame.

“oh god—” I cried out, my cheek pressed to the wood, sparks dancing in my vision as my body struggled to keep up.

He didn’t slow. Each punishing snap of his hips forced me deeper into the door, pinning me tighter, dragging loud cries from my throat. The soreness only made it sharper—every stroke, every inch of him stealing another gasp.

The angle was devastating, deep, his length hitting that tender spot again and again until my knees buckled.

My release dragged him with me, his thrusts faltering, growing erratic. His face buried in my neck, sweat dripping between us as his groans deepened, his body tensing. He slammed into me one last time, hard and deep, before shuddering against me.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his voice breaking as he spilled inside me, holding me so tight I could barely breathe. His body trembled against mine, every muscle taut, every breath ragged.

We stayed like that, pinned against the wall. His breath was harsh against my ear, his chest heaving. I could still feel him pulsing inside me, the evidence of what we’d just done warm between my thighs.

He didn’t speak at first. Neither of us did. The silence was deafening, filled only with the thundering beat of our hearts. When he finally pulled back to look at me, his gaze was conflicted, wrecked. His thumb brushed over my swollen bottom lip where he’d bitten me, and for a fleeting second, his anger faltered.

“You won’t be the death of me,” he whispered once more, and then took my arms to turn him towards him. My legs felt like jelly at the slightest movement. He noticed instantly, hooking an arm under my knees and hoisted me up.

My breath hitched at the sudden gentleness, so opposite from the furious way he’d taken me just moments ago. He cradled me against his chest, his heartbeat pounding in sync with mine, his scent surrounding me—warm musk, sweat, cologne, and sex. I buried my face into the curve of his neck without meaning to, my lips brushing against his damp skin, tasting salt.

Damon carried me across the room with steady strides, every step making me more aware of how completely undone I was in his arms. He laid me down onto the cool sheets, gently lowering me down.

His huge frame hovered above me, his shadow falling across my body. His eyes searched mine with a depth that made my chest ache, like he was memorizing every detail of me in that moment. My hands moved without thought, reaching up, my fingers brushing over the faint stubble along his jaw. The rasp of it tickled my fingertips, grounding me.

But he caught my hand, not pushing it away, but holding it as though it meant something to him. Slowly, but deliberate, he turned it in his grasp and pressed his lips to my palm.


I didn't realize I'd dozed off earlier. And when I opened my eyes, I was alone in the room. I could still smell him though.

I laid there for a while, with complicated emotions.

My eyes caught my cellphone on the nightstand and I sighed deeply. Knowing fully well I might have missed the meeting with Marcus already.

I took the phone, just as I heard the tap rush in the bathroom. He's still here. A warm fuzzy feeling filled me. I think a part of me already loved having him around, even as much as I kept acting otherwise most times.

My phone was powered off, and for many reasons, I heaved a sigh of relief, placed it back on the dresser and climbed off the bed.

He was leaning on the sink, shirtless, tattoes covered most of his back. His brief hung low.

His head was down, his muscles flexed, clutching tightly the edge of the sink. It was as of I could feel wherever he was feeling right now. I shut the door and leaned on it. Not going closer.

He still didn't look up. Its scary to think--to acknowledge that I might have been wrong all these while. To realize I threw our time together for a fabricated lie, but I really needed to be proven otherwise. I badly want to walk up to him and pull him into my arms, to comfort him.

My palm itched to hold his face, gently rubbing soothing touches to calm him...

"I had a hysterectomy."

The words slipped from my lips before I could stop them, shaky and unsure, breaking the silence

My gaze dropped to the bathroom tiles. I couldn’t look at him.

“I… had an emergency hysterectomy,” I whispered again, my throat tightening.

The confession hung heavy in the air, echoing between the walls, between us.

Slowly, I forced myself to lift my eyes. He was already staring at me through the mirror, his reflection unreadable. But his face had drained of color, his hands white-knuckled on the sink.

I let i
n a shaky breath, my voice cracking as I muttered, barely above a whisper, "I almost died."