The Fake Luna: Marked By The Alpha King

Chapter 271: Chapter 271 You begged for it

Aria’s POV

"Damian—"

"Shh." He bit the side of my throat, not gentle, and pushed one thick finger inside me. Then a second.

My pussy clenched hard around him; a helpless sound tore out of my mouth. He fucked them into me in deep, deliberate strokes while his cock ground against my ass, smearing more wetness across my skin. "I’ve been hard for you all night. I’m done waiting."

He walked me forward like that—fingers buried in me, chest glued to my back—into the bathroom.

The tub was already filling, steam thick in the air. Opposite it, a full-length mirror ran the width of the wall—impossible to ignore.

Damian had that mirror installed himself.

Not for decorating. Not for getting dressed. He’d said it outright the day the workmen left, mouth against my ear, hand already between my legs: So you can watch me fuck you. Every time I stepped in here I remembered—my palms on that glass, him behind me, the way he’d forced my eyes up and made me watch my own cunt take his cock. The memory hit hard and filthy. Fresh slick poured out around his fingers, shameless and sudden, soaking his hand.

Damian felt it. Of course he did.

He caught my flinch toward the glass and laughed, dark and low, against my ear.

"Oh, you’re looking. Good. You’re going to watch every fucking second."

He yanked his fingers out of my cunt. Slick stretched in sticky strings between them; he wiped it across my nipple like he was marking me, then shoved me down into the hot water.

I sank with a splash, thighs already open, breath ragged. Heat closed around my hips and breasts. His cock was right there—thick, flushed, bobbing above the water as he stepped in after me—and I was so sure he was going to drag me onto it that my pussy clenched around nothing in raw anticipation.

He didn’t.

He sat behind me, pulled me back between his legs, and reached for the body wash like he had all the time in the world.

"I’m going to wash you first," he said, voice rough with restraint he was clearly enjoying. His mouth brushed my shoulder. "You’re a mess."

"Damian—don’t tease—"

"Quiet."

Then he kissed me.

Slow. Deep. Filthy in how controlled it was—his tongue licking into my mouth while soapy hands started roaming my body under the water. He washed my throat, my arms, my stomach, then both hands covered my breasts and worked foam over them in heavy circles until my nipples were stiff and aching between his fingers. I moaned into his mouth. My hips kept lifting, searching for his cock.

He only smiled against my lips and reached lower.

"Open your legs."

I did.

His lathered hand cupped my pussy like he owned it. Fingers spreading me open under the hot water, foam and slick mixing as he cleaned me with devastating care—rubbing slow along my folds, circling my clit, dipping just barely inside to rinse me before stroking back up again. Not fucking me with his fingers. Torturing me with them. Every pass was thorough, intimate, unbearable.

"Look how filthy you got just from walking in here," he murmured, kissing the corner of my mouth, my jaw, my wet cheek. Two fingers parted me wider so the water could lick straight over my clit. "Remembering the mirror? Remembering how you looked with your cunt stretched around me?"

"Y-yes—"

"Pathetic." He sounded pleased. His fingers kept working me, steady and merciless, until my thighs were shaking and my head fell back on his shoulder. Pleasure coiled tight and vicious. I was right there—right fucking there—

He pulled his hand away.

Just like that.

A broken sound tore out of me. My hips jerked after nothing. Empty. So empty I almost hated him.

"Damian—!"

"Not yet."

He turned me slightly, chest still glued to my back, and squeezed fresh body wash into his palms.

Then those soapy hands slid up my stomach and locked onto my breasts again—kneading, squeezing, thumbs flicking my wet nipples while he watched us both in the mirror over my shoulder.

Foam ran down my skin. His cock rested obscenely against my lower back, scorching hot, smearing precum on me every time I squirmed.

He didn’t put it in.

He just kept washing me. Rubbing me. Using my tits like playthings while my pussy throbbed and dripped into the water, clenching around nothing until the ache turned sharp.

"Please," I finally choked out. My voice sounded wrecked. "Damian, please—I need you inside—I can’t—"

"Can’t what?" His fingers pinched both nipples at once. In the mirror, my face was flushed and desperate, shameless. "Use your words, my queen."

"I need your cock," I gasped. "Stop torturing me—fuck me—please—"

Only then did he move.

He hauled me up out of the main soak like I weighed nothing and put me on my knees on the wide submerged bench facing the mirror—water still lapping at our thighs, steam streaking the glass.

One hand shoved my spine forward until my hands hit the rim. The other fisted my hair and wrenched my head up.

"Eyes on the mirror," he said, raw and vicious. "You begged for it. Now you watch yourself take it."

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