35. 2
My teeth catch my lower lip, worrying the flesh as heat pools low in my belly, spreading outward in waves that have nothing to do with my recent workout. The air between us feels charged, electric with possibility and shared need barely contained.
For what feels like eternity, we stand frozen in this moment of exquisite tension—neither advancing nor retreating, balanced on the knife-edge of anticipation. I see the question in his eyes, the permission he's waiting for despite the Alpha instincts clearly urging him forward.
The last of my resistance crumbles beneath that respectful restraint, beneath the evidence that even now, even with desire clearly straining his control, he will not proceed without my explicit agreement. My chin lifts slightly, a barely perceptible nod that nevertheless communicates everything necessary.
The space between us vanishes as Bastian closes the final distance, his lips claiming mine with hunger that's been carefully banked but never truly extinguished. The kiss is nothing like I expected from him—not gentle, not hesitant, not carefully measured like so many of his interactions. Instead, it's primal, demanding, deep enough to draw a startled moan from my throat as his tongue explores with bold possession.
My arms rise automatically to encircle his neck, but his hands capture my wrists before they can complete the journey. In one smooth motion, he pins them above my head against the padded wall, the restraint secure but never painful. The position arches my back, pressing my body more firmly against his solid warmth, creating contact from chest to thigh that sends fresh heat spiraling through my core.
I surrender to the sensation without conscious thought, body melting against his larger frame with instinctive recognition of compatibility that transcends designation or conscious choice. The submission isn't about weakness or fear, but about trust freely given—about allowing vulnerability with someone who has repeatedly proven himself worthy of such rare offering.
When we finally break for air, I'm gasping, heart racing with arousal that far exceeds any excitement generated by my previous exertion. Bastian's lips don't leave my skin, instead traveling along my jaw to the sensitive hollow beneath my ear, then down the column of my throat with deliberate attention that draws another moan from depths I typically keep carefully contained.
"Someone might come in," I whisper, the protest halfhearted at best, undercut by the way my head tilts to provide better access to the sensitive skin he's exploring. "Might see us."
His response vibrates against my throat, sending fresh shivers racing across my skin. "I don't care," he growls, the sound more animal than human in its primal possession. "I'm big enough that they won't see an inch of you when I strip you bare and take you right here."
He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, intensity tempered by that unexpected respect that continues to surface even in moments of raw desire. "If that's what you want."
The consideration—the space for choice even now—pushes me over the edge from arousal to desperate need. "Fuck yeah," I breathe, the crude encouragement emerging without filter or calculation. Simply honest response to offered pleasure, to connection I'm increasingly unwilling to deny.
Permission granted, Bastian releases one of my wrists, his now-free hand moving to the waistband of my shorts. He tugs downward with careful strength that manages to be both efficient and sensual, the fabric sliding over my hips and down my legs with minimal resistance.
"Perfect," he murmurs, gaze traveling over newly exposed skin with appreciation that feels like physical touch. "Your ass is even more spectacular than I imagined."
His large palm cups the curve he's just complimented, fingers splaying possessively across flesh with just enough pressure to make me gasp. The touch is proprietary but never rough, confident without crossing into painful territory that might trigger memories better left undisturbed.
A groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating against me where our bodies press together. "Of course you'd provoke me like this," he says, voice thick with arousal barely contained.
"Doing what?" I ask, genuinely confused by the accusation despite the clear evidence of mutual desire between us.
His fingers slide lower, tracing the crease where thigh meets buttock, then continuing inward to discover the abundant wetness already gathered between my thighs. "Why aren't you wearing panties?" he asks, the question emerging strained as his fingers explore evidence of arousal I couldn't hide even if I tried.
Heat floods my cheeks at being caught in what must seem deliberate provocation. "It's easier to high kick without them," I explain, the practical truth somehow more embarrassing than if I'd planned this seduction. "Less restriction during combat movement."
Bastian's eyes darken further, if such thing is possible. "You know what else is easier without them?" he asks, voice dropping to register that sends fresh arousal pooling between my thighs. His free hand moves to my sports bra, tugging the stretchy material downward with careful efficiency that nevertheless conveys urgent need.
My breasts spill free, immediately tightening in the cooler air and the heat of his gaze. "Sliding my cock into that slick pussy of yours," he finishes, words crude yet delivered with such sincere appreciation that they feel like poetry rather than pornography.
Before I can respond, his mouth claims mine again, swallowing whatever reply might have formed. The kiss is deeper this time, more commanding, tongue exploring with ownership that feels earned rather than demanded. I moan against his lips, the sound emerging without conscious permission, pure instinctive response to pleasure freely given and received.
In one fluid motion that highlights his impressive strength, Bastian lifts me, hands gripping beneath my thighs to spread me open as he presses me more firmly against the wall. The position leaves me completely exposed, vulnerable in ways that would typically trigger defensive response. Instead, I find myself wrapping my legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to draw him closer.
The hard length of him presses against my entrance, still confined by his tactical pants but unmistakable in its size and readiness. He rocks against me, the friction sending jolts of pleasure racing through nerves already sensitized by anticipation and extended foreplay.
"Please," I whisper against his lips, uncharacteristic begging emerging without calculation or restraint. "Don't tease."
The sound he makes is pure Alpha satisfaction—the rumbling approval of a predator whose prey has willingly surrendered, who recognizes submission freely offered rather than coerced. His hands shift, supporting my weight with one arm while the other moves to free himself from confining fabric.
The first brush of his bare flesh against mine draws simultaneous gasps from both of us—the contact electric despite its gentleness, promise of connection more intimate than mere physical joining. He positions himself carefully, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance without penetrating, giving me one final moment to reconsider before proceeding.
"Get on with it," I demand, impatience born of desire too long denied, of need that transcends rational thought or measured consideration. My core throbs with empty ache that only he can fill in this moment, muscles clenching around nothing as my body prepares for what mind and heart have already accepted.
Bastian chuckles, the sound warm with affection beneath obvious arousal. "So impatient," he observes, lips curving in smile that transforms his scarred features with unexpected tenderness. "So demanding, even now."
Before I can form indignant response, he shifts his hips and enters me in one smooth motion that steals breath and thought simultaneously. The stretch is exquisite—not painful but definitely demanding, requiring adjustment to accommodate his considerable size. We both moan at the sensation, the sound harmonizing in perfect counterpoint that feels more significant than it logically should.
He holds still once fully seated, forehead pressed against mine, breath mingling in shared atmosphere between us. The moment extends beyond mere physical connection, beyond designation dynamics or biological imperative. This is choice made consciously, connection accepted deliberately despite shared damage and individual defenses carefully constructed over years of necessary isolation.
When Bastian finally begins to move, the rhythm starts slow and measured—controlled power directed entirely toward mutual pleasure rather than selfish satisfaction. Each thrust is precisely targeted, angle adjusted based on my responses until he finds the exact position that makes me gasp and tighten around him. Once located, he maintains that alignment with unwavering focus, each movement designed to build pleasure systematically rather than chaotically.
"So good," I whisper, praise emerging without conscious decision to offer it. "So perfect, Bastian. You feel... God, you feel amazing."
The words seem to affect him profoundly, muscles tensing as control momentarily wavers beneath unexpected vulnerability. His pace increases fractionally, still measured but carrying added urgency that suggests approaching limits to his legendary restraint.
Pressure builds within me, familiar yet somehow different from previous experiences with Knox or Rook. There's something about Bastian's approach—the combination of raw strength, careful consideration, and emotional openness—that pushes me toward climax with unprecedented speed and intensity.
"I'm close," I warn, the admission emerging between panting breaths as pleasure coils tighter with each precise thrust. "So close, Bastian. Please don't stop."
"Never," he promises, voice strained with effort of maintaining rhythm while approaching his own release. "Not until you're satisfied. Not until you take exactly what you need."
The simple pledge—commitment to my pleasure as priority—somehow becomes the final push required. Orgasm crashes through me with stunning intensity, muscles clenching around his length with rhythmic pulses that draw a primal growl from deep in his chest. Waves of pleasure radiate outward from where we're joined, racing along neural pathways to create full-body response that leaves me trembling and gasping in his secure hold.
Bastian follows almost immediately, his own release triggered by the evidence of my satisfaction. He pulls out at the last moment, denying his knot the connection biology demands, spending himself against my thigh with careful consideration that registers even through pleasure-induced haze clouding rational thought.
For several moments, we remain locked together against the wall, breathing gradually slowing, heartbeats returning to something approaching normal rhythm. Bastian's face presses into the curve where my neck meets shoulder, breath warm against skin now cooling as exertion-induced heat begins to dissipate.
I tighten my arms around his shoulders, drawing him closer rather than creating distance I might typically seek after such vulnerability. My hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading through short hair as I guide him back to my entrance with unmistakable intent.
"Take your knot," I whisper, the invitation carrying weight beyond mere physical completion. This is active choice rather than heat-induced necessity—deliberate acceptance of connection his consideration had left optional rather than mandatory.
He lifts his head, searching my expression with intensity that seems to look beyond surface to something deeper, more fundamental than momentary desire. Whatever he finds there must satisfy, because he presses forward again, his partially formed knot easing into place with careful attention to my comfort despite obvious urgency of his own need.
The pressure is intense—fullness beyond what I've experienced even with Rook, whose size has always been considerable. But there's no pain, only the particular satisfaction of biological compatibility perfectly aligned, of puzzle pieces finding predestined fit despite jagged edges and damaged corners.
Bastian groans as his knot fully engages, muscles trembling with the effort of maintaining position that keeps my comfort prioritized despite awkward angle and continued exertion. The sound contains elements I haven't heard from him before—vulnerability beneath strength, need beneath control, something like wonder beneath typical reserve.
"I've never been eased through it before," he admits softly, the confession emerging with hesitation that suggests sharing secrets rarely voiced aloud. "Never had someone take me through the descent rather than just the climb."
The revelation creates unexpected tightness in my chest—this glimpse of loneliness beneath his solid presence, this evidence of past encounters that satisfied physical needs while leaving emotional ones unaddressed. I tighten around him deliberately, drawing another groan that feels like victory despite its quietly desperate edge.
He lowers us carefully to the mat, arranging our bodies with the particular consideration that seems fundamental to his nature rather than performance for effect. We lie together, connected in the most intimate way possible, as his knot gradually subsides and allows eventual separation.
His fingers trace patterns along my spine, touch gentler than seems possible from hands capable of such devastating force when required. The tenderness creates emotional vulnerability more profound than physical exposure, drawing truths I might otherwise keep carefully guarded.
"It's not like I haven't wanted to fuck you senseless every morning," he admits quietly, voice rumbling through his chest where my head rests. "When I hear Rook or Knox with you, when the sounds carry through walls that should provide more privacy than they do... it takes everything I have not to join, not to claim what they're experiencing."
His hand continues its gentle exploration, moving to my shoulder, then collarbone, then cheek with reverence that makes it impossible to interpret as merely sexual interest. "But I genuinely wanted to ask you first. To approach this differently than just physical need or biological compatibility."
A laugh bubbles up, surprising both of us with its genuine amusement rather than deflection or dismissal. "Well, you clearly lost that bet," I observe, feeling strangely lighter despite the seriousness underlying his confession.
"Clearly," he agrees, smile evident in his voice even without seeing his expression. He shifts slightly, reaching for something beyond my line of sight. His arm returns bearing sanitizing wipes I recognize from the gym's equipment cleaning station, consideration evident in even this practical aftermath.
He cleans us both with efficient care that somehow never feels clinical or impersonal—attention to physical comfort that extends naturally from the connection we've just shared. As he works, his movements slow, hands stilling against my skin as if gathering courage for something more challenging than the intimacy we've already experienced.
When he finally looks up, meeting my gaze directly, there's vulnerability in his expression I've never witnessed before—the scarred face open in ways that transform his typically intimidating features into something unexpectedly beautiful.
"Would you want to go out somewhere?" he asks, the question emerging with hesitation entirely at odds with the confident physical presence he typically projects. "With me. Just us."
The request catches me completely off guard—so normal, so ordinary, so disconnected from the violence and danger and complication that typically defines our interactions. "Now?" I ask, genuine confusion replacing post-orgasmic contentment.
"You have nothing else to do, yes?" he responds, lips quirking in subtle smile that softens the potential rejection inherent in my startled response.
I find myself smiling back, excitement brewing unexpectedly at this simple proposition that somehow feels more significant than the intimacy we've just shared. "Deal," I agree, the single syllable carrying weight beyond its obvious meaning.
Bastian's responding smile transforms his entire face, erasing years of hardship and violence to reveal glimpses of who he might have been in gentler circumstances, who he still is beneath carefully constructed armor developed through years of necessary protection.
In that moment—sweaty, partially clothed, still intimately connected on a gym mat that's seen better days—I recognize something I've been fighting against acknowledging for longer than I care to admit.
This isn't just physical compatibility, isn't just biological response or tactical alliance or convenient protection. This is connection that transcends designation or circumstance, that exists between individuals rather than categories or roles assigned by biology or society.
This is something I've convinced myself I neither deserved nor desired—something I've systematically denied needing or wanting through seven years of carefully maintained isolation, of vengeance prioritized above all else.
This is something dangerously close to belonging.