Damien's POV
After what happened at the wedding, the atmosphere between me and Killian was unbearable—tight as a wire pulled to the edge of snapping. Neither of us said anything, but the tension followed us like a storm cloud. Even Anita noticed. She gave me a sideways glance the next morning when we boarded the plane back to Ameria, her lips twitching like she wanted to ask but wisely didn't.
Richard, on the other hand, wouldn't shut up.
"That was an excellent outcome," he told Anita on the flight. "The trade conditions are cleaner than I expected. I think President Roul was quite taken with our firm stance on energy independence."
"He was," Anita agreed. "And your foreign minister friend was quite taken with the president." Her smirk was unmistakable.
I said nothing. I didn't even flinch.
"I enjoyed myself," Richard added, sipping champagne. "First diplomatic wedding I've ever attended. Beautiful venue, good wine, terrible cake. You?"
Anita's gaze flicked toward Killian, who was standing a few feet away, unreadable as ever. "I enjoyed the show."
I ignored them both.
We landed early Saturday morning. Home. The presidential compound was as quiet and cold as I remembered, but I didn't miss the way Killian's eyes scanned everything as we entered, all soldier, no softness.
I headed upstairs for a shower and a change of clothes. When I came down for lunch, Killian was already waiting. The food had been laid out, five different options prepared by the kitchen.
Killian stepped forward wordlessly, picked up the silverware, and tasted each plate with that same unreadable mask. Watching him do it—watching his mouth wrap around my food—sent a flash of heat right through my chest.
He finished the routine and gave a single nod. I sat, forced myself to eat. The silence between us was screaming.
When I stood to leave, Killian fell into step behind me.
Halfway down the hallway, a hand grabbed my wrist.
I didn't even get the chance to gasp.
The next thing I knew, I was being shoved—gently but firmly—into a dark, narrow storeroom. The door slammed behind us. I barely caught my breath before he pinned me against the wall.
"You think you got away with that stunt you pulled, right?" His voice was low, dangerous. That voice of his—so fucking sharp, like he was cutting into me on purpose.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
"I'm going to punish you for that," Killian murmured, leaning in, breath hot against my jaw. "And by the time I'm done, you'll be begging for me to fuck you."
My knees nearly gave out.
"I didn't—" I started.
He grabbed my jaw, tilted my head up so I had no choice but to meet those cold, furious eyes. "Don't speak. Just feel."
Then he dropped to his knees.
The sight of Killian—*Killian*—on the floor in front of me, hands working open my trousers like it was *his* right, like *I* was the one meant to be obedient—
"You didn't even look at me that night." He was whispering now, lips brushing my skin as he spoke. "Was she that good?"
I hissed when he wrapped his hand around my cock. I was already hard. Pathetic.
"Did she suck you like this?" he asked, licking a long, slow stripe up my shaft, just enough to make me twitch.
"Killian—" My voice broke.
"Tell me." His breath hit the tip of me. "Did she gag on your cock the way I do?"
And then he swallowed me whole.
My hand slammed against the wall. Fuck. *Fuck.*
His mouth was ruthless. Wet, warm, perfect—and angry. I felt it in every flick of his tongue. He bobbed his head fast, then slowed. Torturing me. Just when I was right on the edge, he pulled off with a pop.
"Please—" I breathed.
He smirked. "You want to come?"
I nodded. Desperate. So fucking desperate.
He went back down on me again.
This time, I swore I was going to explode. I bucked forward. He gripped my thighs hard, holding me still. I hit the edge. I was about to—
He pulled off again.
"No," he said simply, voice sharp.
I groaned, grabbing the shelf behind me for support. "Killian—don't—"
"You don't get to come yet." He licked the head of my cock once, just to torture me. "Not until I say so."
I was shaking.
He did it *again*. Took me deep, worked me up, let me hover there on the razor's edge—and then stopped.
"You're a fucking sadist," I choked.
"I'm your sadist." He stood, eyes dark. My cock throbbed in the air between us, painfully hard, still wet with his spit. "You don't get to come unless I say so."
He reached for my trousers, zipped me up *without* letting me finish, and buttoned them shut like he was tying off a bomb.
"You're not jerking off," he said flatly. "Not until I give you permission. Understood?"
I didn't trust my voice, so I nodded.
"Say it."
"I—I won't jerk off unless you tell me to."
"Good."
He opened the door. Sunlight spilled in.
"Go on. Finish your day." He smirked. "I'll be right behind you."
I walked out of that storeroom dazed. Horny. Cursed. And completely wrecked.
---
*Later that evening…*
I sat at my desk, uselessly staring at paperwork I couldn't read. My cock was still aching. The memory of his mouth on me—of how *close* he let me get—looped in my mind like torture.
I could jerk off. I could do it right now. No one would know.
But I'd know.
And Killian… he'd know too.
I groaned and ran my hand through my hair. What the hell had I gotten myself into?