Page 174 of Little Spider

Damien presses his lips behind my ear, the touch almost reverent. “The world thinks you’re dead now, little spider.” Another kiss follows, lower, darker. “But you’ve never been more alive.”

The silence that settles between us isn’t the suffocating kind anymore. It doesn’t crush or consume. It just lingers—soft and smoky and strange. Like silk wrapping itself around me. Like a second skin I’d forgotten I ever took off.

His hands stay on me. Not controlling. Not claiming. Just there. Steady. Real.

And that’s when it hits me—the sharpest, strangest realisation of all.

No one owns me anymore. Not him, not the world outside, not the version of me that used to stare into mirrors with hollow eyes and whisper,please don’t let him see me, as if the glass could hide what I was. Because he did see me—every scar, every sin, every piece of ruin I tried to bury beneath a trembling smile—and he didn’t flinch. He kissed the cuts like they were something holy, marked the skin with the kind of reverence that burned, and taught me how to breathe inside a body that had always felt like a cage. He made me say goodbye to a name that never fit, to a girl who begged for invisibility and mistook silence for safety.

And now—he waits. Still. Quiet. Patient. The air hums with the ghost of everything we were, every command, every plea, every echo of surrender that used to hang between us like a blade. He wants to see what I’ll do when it’s not a game anymore, when there’s no chase to keep us sharp, no punishment to bleed for, no escape to run toward. When it’s just me—bare, breathing, unhidden—choosing.

I turn in his arms slowly, the world shrinking to the small, electric space between our bodies, the edges of reality dissolving until all that’s left is the weight of his gaze. He watches me withthat same look he always has, like I’m the answer to a question he hasn’t dared to ask yet, like if he blinks, I’ll disappear.

“What now?” I whisper, the words barely a breath, almost afraid to exist.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just looks down at me with eyes that see too much, that strip away every layer I thought I’d rebuilt. “That’s not up to me anymore.”

And that’s when I feel it—the shift. The quiet, seismic change in the air that trembles between us, the realisation that somewhere between fear and freedom, between pain and want, I stopped surviving him and started becoming something else entirely. The power turns in my chest like something sacred and savage all at once, something born of both ruin and resurrection.

And I whisper, steady this time, a command, a confession, a coronation.

“Then I want you to kneel.”

His eyes darken—not with rage, not with surprise, but with something far more dangerous, something ancient and wordless that moves like devotion through his veins. Reverence. The kind that isn’t soft, the kind that cuts. He takes a single step back, gaze never leaving mine, and then—slowly, deliberately—he drops to his knees. The sound of it, that quiet surrender against the floor, feels like a prayer breaking open between us. He smiles, lips curling with the ghost of satisfaction, with something that looks almost like relief.

“Finally.”

He doesn’t rise. He stays there, kneeling, head bowed, chest lifting and falling in slow, measured breaths, like he already knows what’s coming, like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than either of us can admit aloud. I let the silence stretch between us, let it breathe, let it ache, until it becomes something alive. I want him to feel what I felt—every second of the waiting, every tremor of want turned into obedience. He made me wait,night after night, until my skin begged and my throat went raw with pleas he wouldn’t let me speak.

Now it’s his turn.

I reach down, fingers sliding into his hair, curling until they find their hold, until I can tilt his head back and make him look at me. His mouth is already parted, breath shallow, eyes glazed with something close to worship. Good.

“On your back,” I say.

The words barely leave my lips before his pupils dilate, dark swallowing the colour. He obeys instantly—smooth, precise, hungry. There’s no hesitation in him, no pause, just the quiet fall of his body to the rug at my feet, every muscle coiling like he was made for this, like the world finally makes sense when he’s beneath me.

I step forward, one knee sinking on each side of his face, and he groans—a low, reverent sound that vibrates through the air—because he can already smell me, because he knows what comes next.

His eyes already know the truth—how wet I am, how ready. The wetness between my thighs catches light, glistens. "Hands behind your head." His fingers lace together behind his dark curls, biceps flexing, throat exposed.

I hover above him, knees sinking into plush carpet on either side of his shoulders. The heat of his breath teases my inner thighs as I suspend myself inches from his waiting mouth. "Beg for it."

A muscle in his jaw tightens. His voice emerges like gravel over velvet. "Please." Not enough. I lower myself just enough for him to reach—just enough for his lips to press a single kiss against my inner thigh, leaving a damp mark that cools in the air when I pull away.

"That's not what I asked for." His chest rises and falls faster now.

"Let me taste you. Let me drink you in until I'm drunk on you. Let me worship every fold, every drop." His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. "Please. I need it."

I sink down, the first contact of his mouth against my centre sending electricity up my spine. His groan vibrates against sensitive flesh as he opens his mouth wider, tongue flattening to take long, deliberate strokes from entrance to clit.

He devours me like a starving man, his technique precise despite his hunger—circling, flicking, dipping inside, then returning to that swollen bundle of nerves that makes my thighs quiver. I grip his hair, tugging sharply, grinding myself against his face. His responding moan sends vibrations through my core. His eyes roll back—he's getting off on this, on being used, on being commanded.

"Faster." His tongue obeys, quickening its pace. "Sloppier." Saliva mingles with my arousal, the sounds of his mouth growing wetter, filthier. "Don't stop until I shake." He doubles his efforts, alternating between broad strokes and pointed precision. First slow—agonisingly slow—his tongue tracing patterns like he's memorising a map of my pleasure.

Each lick deliberate, each pause between them a torment. My thighs begin to tremble around his ears. The rough carpet fibres dig into my knees, the slight pain grounding me as pleasure builds. His breath comes in hot puffs against my sensitive skin, reverent and steady.

He takes his time, building me up with methodical devotion—a long, firm stroke up my centre that stops just short of where I need him most, then a softer touch along the crease where thigh meets labia, awakening nerve endings I'd forgotten existed. I gasp, not from the physical sensation alone, but from the realisation that he's studying me, learning me, memorising every reaction.