EPILOGUE #2
Mordechai set a pace that was deliberate and commanding, not punishing, not gentle, but precise.
Each thrust deep and angled to hit the place that made Rodney's mind go blank.
His claws came out, just the tips, grazing lines down Rodney's back that burned and healed almost simultaneously, leaving bright tracks that were as much signature as sensation.
"You're mine," Mordechai said, his voice wrecked. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Louder." He snapped his hips, harder now, faster, the sound of their bodies meeting obscene and wet in the quiet office. "I want the whole building to hear it. I want everyone who calls this office to know what I do to you in here."
"I'm yours, Sir, I'm yours, I'm yours." The words fell apart into moans as Mordechai's rhythm turned savage, driving into him with a force that rattled the desk against the wall.
Rodney was pinned beneath him, taking it, his cock grinding against the edge of the desk with every thrust, the friction maddening and not enough.
Then Mordechai's hand came around and gripped him, tight, slick, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts, and the dual sensation of being fucked and stroked at the same time shoved Rodney toward the edge so fast he nearly went over without permission.
"Not yet," Mordechai growled. His hand tightened at the base of Rodney's cock, holding him back. Rodney sobbed, an actual sob, desperate and wrecked, his body clenching so hard around Mordechai that they both groaned.
"Please, Sir, please, I can't hold it—"
"You can." Mordechai slowed. Drew almost all the way out, just the thick head stretching Rodney's rim, and held there.
The denial was excruciating. Rodney was right on the edge, every nerve screaming, and Mordechai was holding him off it with nothing but his voice, his grip, and the maddening, deliberate control of his hips.
"You'll hold it because I told you to. And when I let you cum, you're going to scream my name. Aren't you?"
"Yes, Sir, yes, anything—"
Mordechai slammed back in. All the way. One brutal thrust that buried him to the root, and his teeth found the back of Rodney's neck, the place that was his, had always been his since the first night, and he bit down hard, and his hand found Rodney's cock and stroked once, twice, three times.
"Now. Scream for me."
Rodney came with a scream that Mordechai would later describe as the reason I soundproofed the office.
His cock pulsed in thick, wrenching spurts against the underside of the desk and the floor and his own stomach, his body clenching so hard around Mordechai that the world went white at the edges.
The orgasm ripped through him in waves, each one deeper, each one pulling a sound out of him that was beyond language, beyond thought, just the raw, animal noise of a man being completely and utterly undone.
Behind him, Mordechai's rhythm shattered.
He drove into Rodney hard, once, twice, three times, each thrust punishing and deep, his cock swelling thicker as he got close.
Then his body went rigid and a roar tore out of him that was all cat, all animal, the sound of a predator claiming what was his.
He ground forward, burying himself as deep as he could go, and Rodney felt every throb of him, every pulse, the wet heat flooding him until it spilled down the inside of his thighs and pooled on the hardwood floor beneath the desk.
They stayed connected for a long moment.
Mordechai draped over Rodney's back, his breathing ragged, his lips pressed against the bite mark on Rodney's neck, his cock still buried inside him.
Then he straightened. Cleaned them both up, carefully, thoroughly, the Dom who never skipped aftercare even when the aftercare was paper towels and a locked office door.
Helped Rodney to his feet and pulled him into a kiss that was slow and thorough and tasted like the rest of their lives.
"Get dressed," Mordechai said, when the kiss ended. He was smiling. The warm smile, the one his eyes participated in. "You have voicemails to return and I have a brief to finish. And Rodney?"
"Yes, Sir?"
"Don't be late again." A pause. "The next time, I won't let you cum."
Rodney got dressed. He went to his desk.
He sat down, winced slightly, and began returning messages.
The voicemail light blinked patiently. Through the glass wall, clear again, the blinds raised, Mordechai was at his desk with a scone in one hand and a pen in the other, already back in lawyer mode, already buried in work.
He looked up. Caught Rodney watching. Smiled.
Rodney smiled back and picked up the phone.
This was his life. Scones in the morning. Cases during the day. Thursday nights at the club. Mordechai's hand in his hair. The quiet certainty of a man who knew where he belonged.
It was extraordinary.
He'd never expected to be extraordinary. But Mordechai had looked at him and seen something worth forty thousand dollars and a dead polar bear and a house with a stubborn cactus and a life built together, one morning at a time.
The phone rang. Rodney answered it.
"Mordechai Price's office, this is Rodney speaking. How can I help you?"
And his day, his ordinary and extraordinary day, began.
The End