9. Wren #2
He comes with my name in his mouth, soft and broken.
His hole clenches hard around my fingers, rhythmic and desperate, and his cock jerks untouched against his stomach, thick ropes of cum shooting up his chest, the last one landing just below his collarbone.
His thighs shake around my head and his purr splinters into whimpers that wreck me completely.
I keep working him through it, gentling the pressure by degrees, reading every tremor, until his hand shoves weakly at my shoulder.
“Too much, too much—“
I ease my fingers out, careful. Kiss the inside of each shaking thigh one last time.
I sit back on my heels and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
My chin’s still wet, slick drying sticky on my jaw.
I’m so hard it actually hurts, my cock straining against my jeans, but whatever. That wasn’t the point.
It’s never about that. I give because it’s the only thing I know I’m good at.
I know that’s messed up. Aaron would have a field day.
Soren is limp. Boneless. Sprawled in his nest like something poured out. His eyes are closed and he’s still purring, softer now, one hand reaching for me blindly.
I find a cloth in the bathroom: warm water, soft towel.
When I come back, he hasn’t moved. I clean him up carefully: the cum from his chest first, then the mess pooled in his navel, then between his legs where he’s swollen and oversensitive.
He flinches once when the cloth passes over his hole, and I go lighter, barely touching.
He watches me through half-closed eyes with an expression that’s beyond grateful.
Something that looks so much like love; I have to look away.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” he says quietly, voice rough at the edges. “Nobody’s ever...” He trails off on a shaky laugh. “Nobody’s ever done anything like that. Not even close.”
That pisses me off, deep down. The idea that nobody ever took their time with him, figured out what makes him shake, put him first. Makes me want to go back and have a few words with every asshole alpha who ever touched him.
“Get used to it,” I say, and it comes out more growl than voice.
His eyes go soft. His smile is devastating.
“You didn’t...” He glances at my jeans, at the obvious ridge. “Let me—“
“No.” I toss the cloth toward his laundry basket and tug his boxers back up his hips, then his joggers. “That was for you.”
“Wren.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re literally hard enough to cut glass.”
“Aware.” I pull his T-shirt back over his head, guiding his arms through. “I’ll survive.”
He catches my wrist as I smooth the fabric down over his stomach. Light grip, serious eyes. “Why won’t you let me touch you back?”
Because if he touches me, I’ll last maybe ten seconds, and then he’ll know his alpha has the stamina of a freshman with Wi-Fi.
That’s what I’d tell Aaron. But really, taking something for myself means admitting I need, and I don’t know if that’s enough without the giving.
The first reason is true too. Ten seconds. Maybe eight.
“Next time,” I say, and kiss his forehead. “First time you put your hands on me, I want it to be better than me embarrassing myself in under a minute.”
He flushes, but his mouth goes soft at the corners. “Okay. Next time.” He sounds pleased, not shut down.
He’s too boneless to argue. I kick off my boots and stretch out behind him, pull him in against my chest. My arm lands heavy over his waist, and he threads his fingers through mine, our hands fitting together on his stomach.
Somewhere in there I lost my shirt, no idea when, but my jeans are still on, and the denim between us feels like a wall I need right now.
“The festival,” he murmurs after a while, sleepy and sated. “Your tree. When do you need it finished?”
“Two weeks. Main branches are done. Just detailing the canopy.”
“The little birds in the branches. They’re so beautiful.” His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. “They remind me of mine.”
My heart stops.
“The ones on your windowsill?” Steady. Keep it steady.
“Mm. My secret admirer birds.” He laughs, soft and drowsy. “It’s silly. I should probably be creeped out, but they make me feel... seen? Like someone out there decided I was worth all that effort.” His fingers tighten on mine. “Kind of like what you just did. That sounds ridiculous, right?”
“It doesn’t.” My voice comes out rough. “It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all.”
“I named them all, you know. All seven.”
“You mentioned.” I clear my throat. “Keats is the waxwing?”
“Keats is the waxwing. My favorite.” He yawns against my arm. “And the nuthatch is Fig because he looks permanently offended. You’d like them. The carving is incredible. Whoever makes them knows wood the way you do.”
I want to tell him so bad my jaw aches from clenching it shut.
Open your mouth. Hey, funny thing about those birds—
No. Not now. Not while he’s warm and trusting and still purring against my chest.
“You are,” I say quietly. “Worth all that effort.”
He makes a contented sound and pulls my arm tighter around him, settling deeper into the nest, into me. His purring picks back up, low and steady against my chest.
I hold him and look at my birds on his windowsill: house finch, junco, nuthatch, bluebird.
My work. My hands. My dumb, clumsy heart sitting right there on his shelf.
The waxwing on the nightstand catches the light, and I think about how he carries it everywhere, no idea the same hands that made it just took him apart.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He ignores it. So do I.