–Livana–
The room was crimson—like a sumr sunset bled with hints of purple and pink. Warm. Lush. Almost too close to the color of blood. Does my husband adore that shade a little too much? Still, the sheets looked indulgently soft. Comfortable. Inviting.
I lowered my gaze, tracing the intricate designs on the carpet as Damon moved from door to door, narrating each one with boyish pride.
It was all crimson. Like sumr... and blood. Yet the space was minimal, curated. A loveseat sofa, an ornantal piece shaped suspiciously like a kama sutra sculpture. I shook my head. Damon is completely obsessed with . Let’s just hope he doesn’t plan to use that on anyone else.
The carpet’s markings were detailed, deliberate—different colors and shapes ant to guide . A silent system, designed for soone who can’t always see, to tell where I am... where I should go when I’m alone.
"Here," he said, taking my hand as I followed the violet trail beneath my feet. I guessed it led to the showroom. Damon opened the door with a flourish. "Closet is here!" he bead. "I’ve been fantasizing about you in an elegant silk maxi dress."
"Let hold it."
He pulled out a garnt in a warm, rosy pink. I reached for it—silk, smooth and cool to the touch, with an inner lining that was soft, almost plush. Despite the comfort, it carried the grace of sothing regal.
"Feels comfortable," I murmured.
"Mmm." He nodded eagerly, bouncing a little like a kid showing off his favorite toy. I caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. I wanted to look longer, to study his face... but I held back. I didn’t want to stare.
"Now, let’s take a bath." He gently took the dress from my hand and hung it back with care.
Then, without warning, he swept into his arms and carried toward the bathroom. Along the way, I caught sight of more mirrors—tasteful, strategic, even in the bedroom.
I hate to admit it, but... I like it when he undresses . When he kisses . When he bathes . He treats like porcelain—gentle, attentive, pampering like a precious doll. I noticed his arousal, the way he subtly adjusted himself. But even then, he held back.
I ignored it. I wasn’t in the mood. Yet he still carried into the showroom, where the air slled of leather, expensive perfu, and sothing unmistakably him.
"Baby," he murmured, suddenly kneeling before , "just once."
"What?" I asked, though I already knew. The mont his hand slid to my inner thigh, his intention was clear.
"I just want a quickie." He grinned. "Please?"
"...Okay. Fine."
In one swift motion, he picked up and set on the tall table—hip-level, hard and sturdy, draped in a fleece cover. Empty, almost deliberately so. Maybe it was made for fucking.
His mouth crashed onto mine. Then it drifted—neck, collarbone, chest—before finding its way back to my lips. He lowered his head and sucked hard on my breast. I stared at his naked back through the mirror. Broad, toned. A body sculpted like a Greek god, perfectly proportioned and maddeningly beautiful.
I leaned back on my elbows, letting him open my robe, his face burying itself between my legs. That tongue. Eyes closed, as if savoring every second. God, that’s sexy.
I had never seen him like this—not clearly. The first ti, I was drugged and determined to lose my virginity. He took his ti. An hour of foreplay before he even thought of entering .
Now... now I could see. And seeing made everything burn brighter.
I closed my eyes as I climaxed quickly. He licked clean, then looked up. I kept my eyes trained on his nose, pretending I was still blind. He kissed , and I tasted myself on his tongue.
I gasped, biting his lower lip as he thrust inside . My arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, matching his rhythm. I watched us move together in the mirror—his back flexing, his hips grinding. My body squirming, gasping, taking all of him. Every thrust brought higher. Every spasm was a signal that I was near again.
Even with just his cock, he knew how to hit every spot—precisely. Deep. Perfect.
And now that I could see him, now that I could watch his body move—it only intensified the pleasure.
His lips returned to my breasts, sucking and nibbling as he always did. I didn’t know why he loved them so much, but I wasn’t about to complain. It sent spiraling into a second climax, my body trembling under his touch.
I was drained, utterly spent, but he hadn’t co yet. He laid back, lifted his right knee onto the table, and hooked my left leg over his shoulder. One hand on my hip, the other rubbing low on my abdon—just the right spot.
And then I scread.
It was like he found a secret button, an erotic pressure point that sent squirting uncontrollably. Like he knew exactly where to press, exactly how to unlock sothing primal inside .
Should I call him the God of Orgasm?
He kept thrusting, sweat gleaming on those carved muscles. Every motion was deliberate. Powerful. Controlled. His pectorals, his abs—every damn inch of him moved like a man possessed. Like a farr, endlessly plowing the sa fertile field.
I never thought sex could feel like this.
Never thought I’d be seen and touched this way—completely. Reverently. Obsessively.
And maybe, just maybe... I liked it more than I should.
–Damon–
I was tired—but never of her. I could be bleeding out and I’d still fuck her like it was my final act on earth. When it cos to my wife, there’s no such thing as enough. I’d plow her garden until she’s trembling, crying out, dripping with satisfaction.
Five orgasms. That’s what she gave this ti. She loves to squirt, and I fucking live for it. The way her body writhes under , the way she gasps, loses control, clings to like I’m the only thing tethering her to the world—it’s addictive. I ca deep inside her. Not just once—loads of . Warm, thick, and ant to stay. Future children, our bloodline... seeded into her like she was made to carry only mine.
Afterward, I cleaned her up myself. No one touches her like that but .
I helped her into silk seamless panties—sothing soft enough to comfort her, yet tight enough to remind her of what just happened. Then the dress. She didn’t need a bra; the fabric hugged her breasts perfectly, showing off what belonged to . She was elegant. Ravishing. And wholly mine.
Once we looked presentable—well, as presentable as we could after turning the room into a scene of utter pleasure—we headed downstairs.
Laura was laughing and chatting with Sophie, already a glass of wine in her hand. Chef Wally served them a tray of finger foods. To my surprise, Damien was already at the table, eating smoked fish with rice like he hadn’t just survived a plane crash.
"Do I sll salmon?" Livana asked as I led her to her seat.
I grinned, kissing her temple. Chef Wally had already raised the table height slightly for her comfort.
"Yes, Miss. Your smoked salmon with lemon," he said, placing the plate carefully.
"Does it have rice with it?" she asked, her voice curious but composed.
"Yes, ma’am," Wally replied, "The fish is just over the rice in the very middle."
"Perfect. Thank you, Chef Wally." She smiled, delicate fingers brushing over her utensils before she began to eat—elegantly, precisely. Even the way she eats makes hard. Graceful. asured. A queen at every move.
I grinned... until I noticed Kai staring at her.
I didn’t like it.
"Sothing’s different about you, Livana," he said, eyes lingering too long.
"What kind of difference?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.
"You just... look different."
I narrowed my eyes, already considering whether I needed to have a private word with him later. But my wife—always quick, always wicked—smirked and said, "Maybe because my farr has been plowing my garden?"
I laughed. Couldn’t help it. I slid my hand along her exposed spine, fingers tracing the silk and skin. Mine.
"Oh, is that it?" Kai scoffed awkwardly.
"Yes, Kai," she said smoothly. "By the way, let’s hold a party—for not dying in that plane, and for my sister and Damien’s success."
I clapped. A toast-worthy occasion. Twins? I looked at Damien and bit back a grin. Bastard’s got a magic dick. I almost envied him—almost. But I wouldn’t trade what I have for anything.
Laura looked genuinely happy. Glowing. She should be. And if she ever isn’t—if I even suspect Damien’s screwing this up—I’ll break him in half. He’ll have to deal with .
Because no one gets to hurt the people my wife loves. Not on my watch.
After that indulgent late lunch, Livana and Sophia disappeared for a private talk. I gave them space—barely. Instead, I headed to my study, locking the door behind .
I opened the drawer and pulled out the thick black folder—the one with handwritten records on The Bishops. The very sa group that now bowed to Livana’s command.
She’s not just my wife.
She’s power. She’s fire. And if she ever burns this world down, I’ll be right beside her, fanning the flas.
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