12. Invasive Species #2
Jace dropped. His knees hit the soft earth, and Canyon's cock was in front of his face, thick, veined, the head glistening, a bead of precum catching the failing light.
Jace took it in his mouth with an aggression that surprised them both, sucking deep immediately, no preamble, no teasing, the full shaft pushing past his lips and hitting the back of his throat in one movement that made Canyon's hips jerk and his hand slam against the tree behind Jace's head hard enough to dislodge bark.
"Fuck—Jace—" Canyon's voice was wrecked.
His hand found Jace's hair, gripping but not guiding, letting Jace set the pace, and the pace was punishing, deep, wet bobs that took the full length, Jace's jaw aching around the girth, his tongue working the underside with furious precision, tasting the salt and musk, feeling each vein pulse against his lips.
He was not worshipping. He was claiming—using his mouth the way Canyon used his teeth, marking territory with lips and tongue and suction that was fierce enough to pull sounds from Canyon that Jace had never heard before: broken, ragged, almost vulnerable sounds, the sounds of a creature being taken apart by the one thing it couldn't defend against.
Jace pulled off, gasping, spit connecting his lip to the glistening head. "On the ground," he said, and his voice carried an authority that came from a place he hadn't known existed until jealousy had kicked the door open. "Now."
Canyon obeyed. The most powerful creature on the mountain lay down on the pine needles, his cock standing rigid against his stomach, his eyes silver fire, his expression the complex architecture of a being submitting by choice to something it could overpower in an instant.
The submission was the gift. The vulnerability was the proof.
Jace stripped the rest of his own clothes and straddled Canyon's waist. He slicked his fingers with spit and worked himself open with quick, impatient strokes—nothing like the patient preparation Canyon would have given him, but his body was learning, yielding faster now, remembering the stretch and wanting it back.
Then he reached back, gripping Canyon's shaft, positioning the blunt head at his entrance.
The oil from the bottle Canyon kept in his quarters would have been better, but Jace didn't care.
The spit and the precum and the sheer volume of their mutual need would be enough.
The stretch was burning and enormous, Canyon's girth splitting him open with a pressure that made his eyes water and his cock throb harder in simultaneous contradiction.
He took it slowly, inch by inch, breathing through the expansion, feeling every ridge and vein drag against his inner walls, the head pressing deep, finding the prostate and pressing against it with a specificity that made his vision pulse.
Canyon's hands gripped his hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave prints, but he didn't thrust, held himself still, trembling with the effort, letting Jace take what he needed at his own pace.
When Jace was fully seated—Canyon's cock buried to the root, balls pressed against his ass, the fullness so complete it felt like being occupied from the inside, he stopped.
Breathed. Looked down at Canyon's face and saw, in the silver eyes, something he'd been looking for since the clearing: the absolute, unfiltered truth of where Canyon's loyalty lived.
Not in history. Not in centuries of comfortable familiarity with a golden-haired creature who spoke his language and shared his world.
Here. In this. In the human man sitting on his cock in a forest in Oregon, trembling with jealousy and desire and the terrible, wonderful vulnerability of loving something that could outlive him by millennia.
Jace moved. Rising up on his knees until only the head remained inside, the ridge catching at his rim, then dropping back, hard, deliberate, the impact driving Canyon deep with a force that made both of them cry out.
He set a rhythm that was not gentle, not slow, not the careful escalation of previous encounters.
This was claiming. This was Jace fucking the doubt out of both of them, his body rising and falling with the driven precision of a man who had something to prove and intended to prove it in the most primal language available.
Canyon's cock hit his prostate with every downstroke, each impact a detonation of pleasure that radiated outward through his body, making his own cock bounce and leak, precum dripping onto Canyon's stomach in warm strings.
The sounds were obscene, the wet slap of skin meeting skin, the squelch of bodies coupling, Jace's escalating moans and Canyon's guttural growls, the chorus reverberating off the tree trunks and rising into the canopy like an offering to the forest itself.
"Mine," Jace said, and the word came from somewhere deep, somewhere that had been building since he walked into the kitchen and saw Lucien's hand six inches from Canyon's arm. "You're mine. Not his. Not the Council's. Not history's. Mine."