Page 34 of Trapped By the Cartel

"Yes!" I screamed, meeting him thrust for thrust, eager for more, needing it, craving it. "God, yes!"

Our bodies slapped together, the wet sounds of our joining filling the air along with our grunts and moans. Sweat dripped from our brows, mingling with the scent of sex and desire that hung heavy around us. It was intoxicating and addictive.

Damon leaned back, pushing my legs wider apart, allowing him to plunge even deeper, something I didn't even think possible.

Each stroke hit that magical spot inside me, sending shocks of ecstasy rippling through my body. My vision blurred, and I saw nothing but white-hot sparks behind my closed eyelids.

"So fucking tight," Damon panted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Your ass was made for my cock." And I knew he was right about that.

And then, with a final, powerful surge, he buried himself to the hilt, throwing his head back in a roar of release. Hot jets of cum spilled into me, coating my insides, marking me as his. It was scalding, the texture silky yet thick, filling me completely, stretching me deliciously.

I could feel it dripping out of me, running down my crack, pooling beneath me on the countertop. Yet, despite the mess, I couldn't help but moan in satisfaction, savoring the sensation of being filled by my alpha—of feeling his life force pulsing into me.

As Damon slowly came down from his high, he looked at me with an intensity that stole my breath. "Elliot," he rasped. "I've never… I've never come so hard in my entire life."

I smiled weakly, my body trembling with aftershocks. "Neither have I," I admitted softly. "But I think it has something to do with... you know..."

And he knew exactly what I was talking about. It was no secret.

"The baby," he finished for me, nodding in understanding. "It makes everything feel more intense somehow."

I nodded, unable to find the right words to express what I felt. But Damon seemed to get it—he always did. It was one of the reasons why we were happy to be together. He really always understood me.

With a tenderness that belied the roughness of our lovemaking, he scooped me up into his arms, cradling me closely. Our combined juices leaked from between my asscheeks, trickling down my thighs, but neither of us cared.

"I love you, Elliot," Damon whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. "More than anything in this world—or any other."

I melted into his embrace, my heart swelling with happiness. "I love you too, Damon. So much it hurts sometimes."

He chuckled, hugging me tighter. "Good. Because I intend to keep loving you until it does hurt—a lot."

Chapter 16

Damon

The scent of lavender and chamomile hung in the air, contrasting with the usual musk and leather that permeated our smaller home. It was Elliot's choice, he said it helped soothe his nerves—a constant state these days. He'd always had an affinity for calming scents, a gentle counterpoint to my own inherent intensity.

I stood by the window of our cozy living room, watching the rain lash against the glass. Nine months. Nine months since the day I'd felt him surge into me, that burning connection that cemented our fate. Nine months since we'd confirmed we were expecting a son—a son we named Stellan—a name imbued with strength and resilience, much like his father.

The house was smaller than the Nightshade HQ, far less opulent, but it suited us. It felt… domestic. Safe. A place for Elliot and Stellan to thrive. Though, if I were honest, the 'domesticity' felt more like a gilded cage lately. My responsibilities within the Nightshade pack had intensified over these past months. The recent power struggle with another faction left me stretched thin, constantly pulled in multipledirections. I was dealing with trade routes, managing territories, and mediating disputes—all while trying to be a present partner and expectant father.

It really was a bit too much sometimes.

Elliot sat on the plush, cream-colored sofa, his pregnant belly a prominent bulge beneath a loose-fitting sweater. He was meticulously folding laundry, each crease crisp and precise.

I never thought I would see him doing something like that one day. It was a small, mundane task, but he performed it with a quiet concentration that both charmed and worried me.

He looked small. Not physically, though his frame had certainly softened under the weight of pregnancy. No, it was something deeper—a shrinking of his spirit, an almost palpable dimming of that bright hazel light in his eyes. He'd withdrawn, become quieter than usual, his sharp wit dulled by a weary sadness I couldn't quite decipher. It drove me wild sometimes.

I cleared my throat, trying to break the silence without startling him. "Everything alright, love?"

He looked up, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just fine, Damon. Just… folding laundry." He gestured weakly towards the neatly stacked pile of clothes.

"You've been folding a lot of laundry lately," I commented, walking over to sit beside him on the sofa. I gently placed my hand over his, feeling the warmth radiating from his skin. "Are you bored?"

He shrugged, avoiding eye contact. "Not really. It's… therapeutic."

I frowned slightly. Therapeutic? Folding laundry wasn't usually therapeutic. He used to find solace in reading ancient texts and exploring forgotten languages—things that ignited his mind and lit up his eyes. Now, he seemed content with the quiet repetition of mundane tasks.

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