Chapter 4
Wren
His hands are on my jeans and I'm trying to help, fumbling with the button, but my fingers won't work right.
They're shaking too hard. He brushes them away and does it himself, popping the button and dragging the zipper down.
The sound of it is so loud in my head that it blocks out the bass for a second.
"Lift," he says, and I lift my hips. He pulls my jeans down and the air hits the mess between my legs and I want to disappear.
My boxer briefs are soaked through. The fabric is clinging to my cock, to the crease of my thighs, dark and wet and there's no pretending it's anything other than what it is.
I'm dripping. I've been dripping since I walked onto the floor and now this stranger is looking at the evidence of it and his eyes are on me even through the mask, cataloging me.
My face is burning so hot I think the mask might melt.
He hooks his fingers in my waistband and pulls my underwear down slow.
My cock springs free, hard and flushed and leaking from the tip, and the cool air makes me hiss.
He doesn't touch it. He peels the wet fabric down my thighs and off my legs and drops it somewhere.
I'm naked from the waist down, spread open on a leather couch in a room full of people, and slick is already pooling under me, warm and obscene and collecting in the dip of the cushion.
"Look at me."
I look at him. He's kneeling between my legs, shirtless, the colored light catching the planes of his chest and stomach, and I can see the size of him, the bulk of muscle in his shoulders and arms, and the imbalance of it makes something in my chest constrict.
I'm naked and wrecked and dripping. He's barely affected.
He's got one hand on my knee, keeping me open, and with the other he reaches down and drags two fingers through the slick on my inner thigh.
A long slow swipe from knee to groin. He lifts his fingers and looks at them, the slick stringing between them, shiny in the purple light.
"You've been wet like this all night?"
I can't answer. I nod. My throat has closed up.
"Alone?"
I nod again and something about that answer, about the image of me in heat alone, does something to him. I hear the breath he pulls in through his teeth. His hand tightens on my knee.
"That's over." He says it quiet and steady and absolute. "You're not doing that alone anymore."
I don't know what to do with that sentence.
I don't know what he means by it and I can't think hard enough to figure it out because his slick-wet fingers are sliding down, tracing the crease of my thigh, and then lower.
Then his fingertip is pressing against my hole and I arch off the couch so hard I almost knock into him.
He doesn't push in. He just holds the pressure there, one fingertip against the muscle, and waits.
My body is trying to pull him in. My hole is fluttering and clenching against his finger, desperate and involuntary.
The wet sounds it's making are the most humiliating thing I've ever heard in my life.
"Listen to you," he murmurs. "Listen to what your body's telling me."
"Stop talking about it." It comes out strangled. Half-angry. The first real sentence I've managed since he put his hands on me and I use it to be a dick because that's all I've got left. Being mean is the last wall standing.
He laughs. Low, surprised, almost fond. And then he pushes two fingers inside me and the wall comes down.
I grab the edge of the couch and hold on.
He's thick-fingered and I'm so wet that they slide in easy, no resistance, just this obscene slick sound as he sinks to the second knuckle.
My mouth falls open. He curls his fingers and finds the spot that makes my thighs slam shut around his wrist and he presses into it.
I hear myself moan, loud and raw and nothing like me, and he does it again.
"There it is." His free hand pushes my thigh back open. "Let me hear you. That sound you just made. Again."
I shake my head. I don't want to moan for him. I don't want to perform. He scissors his fingers and twists and I moan again anyway, louder, my hips rolling down against his hand, chasing it. I'm fucking myself on his fingers and I can't stop and he's watching me do it.
He pulls his fingers out. I gasp at the emptiness.
Before I can reach for him he grabs my shirt and pushes it up my chest, bunching it under my armpits.
I'm almost completely naked now, laid out under the colored light with my cock hard against my stomach and slick smeared across my thighs and his eyes are moving over me slow and thorough.
Taking inventory. My chest, my nipples tight and peaked, the trail of hair below my navel, my cock twitching under his gaze.
I've never been looked at like this. Like I'm something to consume.
He puts his fingers back in. Three this time. The stretch pulls a groan out of me that I feel in my teeth and he starts working me open with patient, deliberate strokes, spreading his fingers on every push, and his other hand is flat on my stomach holding me down because my hips won't stop moving.
"You've been fighting this your whole life," he says. His voice is low and wrecked, not composed anymore, and the crack in it sends a bolt straight to my cock. "How tired are you?"
So tired. So fucking tired. I'm so tired of fighting my own body that I could cry and actually I think I am going to cry. That thought is so horrifying that I clench my jaw and dig my nails into the leather and hold on.
"That's what I thought." He twists his fingers and presses deep and my vision swims. "So stop."
He eases his fingers out slowly, dragging them against every nerve on the way, and I whine at the loss. Pathetic and desperate and I don't care anymore. I'm empty and I need to not be empty and my hips are lifting off the couch chasing something that isn't there.
He doesn't give it to me. I hear him shifting, hear the clink of his belt, the rustle of fabric, and then nothing.
He's looking at me. His eyes move over my body, the mess of me, my cock hard and leaking against my stomach, my hole clenching visibly on nothing.
I'm on display for him and I can't even bring myself to close my legs because closing my legs would mean less access and every instinct I have won't allow that right now.
"Please." I hear myself say it and I don't even flinch. The pride is gone. It left somewhere between his second finger and his third. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." His hand wraps around my thigh, pushes it wider.
I feel the head of his cock press against me, thick and hot and slick with my own wetness, and my whole body goes taut.
He holds there. Right at the edge. Pressure but no push.
He's big, I can tell that much just from the head, and my hole is fluttering against him trying to pull him in and he won't let it.
"Breathe."
I try. It comes out shaky and wrong.
He pushes in.
The first inch is so much bigger than his fingers that my brain stalls.
I'm stretched around him and he's barely inside me and already I feel too full.
Already I'm gripping the couch and panting through my mouth because the burn of it is sharp and real and nothing, nothing like doing this alone with a toy in my bed while I pretend I don't need it.
This is a body inside mine. This is an alpha's cock splitting me open and his pulse is right there, thrumming against my walls, the heat of him radiating through me.
I'm clenching down so hard that he grunts and his hand flies to my hip to hold me still.
"Easy." Strained now. His thumb is digging into my hip bone hard enough to bruise. "Let me in."
He pushes deeper. Slow. Inch by inch and I feel every single one.
My mouth is open and I'm making sounds I'll be ashamed of later, wet gasping moans that get higher as he goes deeper.
He just keeps feeding me his cock in a steady relentless slide until his hips are flush with mine.
I feel his balls against my ass. He's all the way inside me and I'm so full I can't breathe.
He stops. Holds there. I'm shaking under him.
My cock is leaking steadily onto my stomach and I've never felt anything like this.
Full in a way that answers the emptiness I've been carrying all night, all year, except the answer is so much bigger than the question.
He's inside me and he's everywhere, the thick stretch of him pressing against walls that have never been touched by another person, and I'm gripping him like I'm afraid he'll leave.
"There you go." He's breathing hard. I can hear it through his mask, ragged and rough, and knowing I'm doing that to him, knowing his composure is cracking too, does something dangerous to my chest. "You feel so fucking good. Do you know that? You're perfect."
He pulls back and pushes in and I cry out.
He does it again. Again. Setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and deliberate, each stroke dragging the full length of him against my insides.
I'm making a sound on every thrust now, punched-out moans I couldn't stop if I wanted to.
My legs come up and wrap around his waist and the angle changes and he goes deeper and I scream, actually scream, and his hand comes down over my mouth.
"Shh." He's still moving. Hasn't slowed down.
Fucking me steady while his palm covers my mouth and I'm moaning into his hand, drooling against his fingers, and his eyes behind the mask are dark and focused and locked on my face.
"I know. I know. You're doing so well. You sound so good when you stop fighting. "
My eyes are burning. The praise and the fullness and the relentless slow pace of him inside me are doing something I can't stop. Something is building behind my ribs that isn't an orgasm. It's bigger than that and scarier and I don't know what happens when it breaks.
He speeds up. His hips snap harder and I feel the base of his cock starting to thicken and swell and oh god.
The knot. I knew it would happen, I studied it, I read about it, and none of that matters because the reality is his cock getting bigger inside me where I'm already stretched to the limit and it's too much, it hurts, it burns.
My hands fly to his chest to push him away.
He catches my wrists. Pins them above my head with one hand and keeps fucking me.
"You can take it." His voice is rough and low and absolutely certain. "You were built to take it. This is what you were made for and you're going to be so good."
The knot swells past the point of no return.
I feel the moment it catches, the widest part of it stretching me open in a sharp flare of pain that whites out my vision, and then it's inside me.
It's locked and I can't move, I can't get away, I'm pinned to this couch by his cock and his hands and his weight and his knot is pulsing inside me and pressing against every nerve I have.
I come so hard I don't make a sound. Everything locks up, every muscle rigid, my cock jerking between us and painting my stomach and chest in hot streaks while the orgasm tears through me in waves that won't stop.
I can feel him coming too, the knot throbbing, the wet heat of him filling me inside, and it goes on and on and I can't breathe and I think I'm dying.
And then I'm crying.
My face crumples behind the mask and I sob, ugly and loud and completely out of my control, the kind of crying that comes from somewhere deeper than sadness.
It comes from the place where I kept everything I wouldn't let myself need, sealed behind pride and anger and years of managing alone.
The knot inside me broke the seal and now it's all coming out at once and I can't stop it.
His hands let go of my wrists. His arms come around me instead, pulling me against his chest, and he's murmuring into my hair.
"That's it. There you go. Let it out." His cock is still locked inside me, his knot still pulsing.
He's holding me while I fall apart and his voice is soft and steady. His hands are stroking my back.
But his breathing has changed. It's faster.
Rougher. And when I sob harder, when a really ugly wrecked sound tears out of my throat, his arms tighten around me and his hips shift, pressing the knot deeper.
I hear him groan low in his chest. He's hard inside me still.
The knot hasn't started to go down and my crying is doing something to him, I can feel it in the way his body tenses, the way his fingers dig into my back when I shake.
"Fuck." He breathes it against my scalp.
His hand fists in my hair, not pulling, just holding, and his hips roll again and I gasp through the tears because the knot presses against everything.
My spent cock twitches against his stomach.
"You don't even know. You don't even know what you look like right now. "
I hate him. I hate him because the praise is still working even now.
I hate him because "there you go" shouldn't make me feel safe and it does.
I hate him because I'm crying on a stranger's knot in an underground club and he's getting off on it .
I've never felt less alone in my life and that's so fucked up I can't even begin to process it.
"You're perfect." He says it into my hair, quiet, almost to himself. His hips have stilled but I can feel his cock pulsing inside me, feel the aftershocks running through his body every time I shudder against him. "Fuck, you're so perfect."
My fingers dig into his back and hold on.
The sobs slow down into hitching breaths and the hitching breaths slow down into something ragged but steady.
The whole time he doesn't move, doesn't shift, doesn't try to pull out because he can't, and the knot forces us to stay exactly like this, locked together, my face pressed against his chest and his arms around me and the wet mess of what just happened cooling between our bodies.
I should be ashamed. I am ashamed. I'm also warm and full. My heat has receded to a low hum instead of a scream and his scent is all over me, soaked into my skin. My body has stopped fighting. For the first time in years my body isn't fighting anything.
I close my eyes against his chest and breathe him in. Somewhere deep in the heat-quieted part of my brain, the wave is already building again.