Chapter 7 #5
But I don't let him rest.
I sit back on my heels between his thighs.
He's looking up at me dazed, mouth still parted, lips swollen from biting them through the call.
I undo my belt, lower my zipper and free myself.
My cock is heavy and aching, neglected for the better part of an hour, the head dark and slick.
I take myself in hand. Stroke slow. Watch his eyes track the movement.
"Sit up, baby."
He sits up. Wobbly. Slow. His chest is still heaving. The duvet's bunched under him. I move up the bed, settle back against the headboard, legs spread, and pat the duvet between my thighs.
"Come here. On your knees."
He crawls. Slow. Eyes up. He's never moved at me like that before—languid, drunk on pleasure, the careful wariness completely gone—and the bond between us flares so hard I have to take a breath.
"That's it. Right here."
He settles between my thighs. Sits back on his heels. Looks at my cock. Looks up at me. Bites his bottom lip.
I cup the back of his head. Slide my fingers through his hair. Tip his face up so he has to keep his eyes on me.
"Hands behind your back."
He puts his hands behind his back.
"Good boy."
His pupils blow wider.
I take myself in hand again, run the head of my cock along his bottom lip.
Smear precum there. He opens his mouth without me asking.
Pink tongue out, waiting. Christ, the picture he makes—on his knees between my thighs, hands behind his back, mouth open and eyes up like he's been waiting his whole life to be told what to do.
"Just the head first, sweetheart. Soft. Show me how pretty you can be."
He leans in. Closes his lips over the head of my cock. Sucks, gentle, the way I told him to. His tongue works the slit. He moans around me—deep, soft, almost not aware he's making the sound—and I have to grit my teeth.
"That's it. Just like that."
His eyes flutter shut.
"Eyes open, baby. Look at me while you do it."
His eyes come back up. Wet at the corners. Lashes dark. He's never been this open in his face before, never let me see this much of him at once, and I'm holding my own composure with both hands.
"Good. So good for me."
He whimpers around my cock at the praise. The vibration goes through me.
"More now. Take more. Slow."
He takes more. Lets his mouth slide down my length, slow, throat working as he goes. He gets about halfway down before he pauses, eyes wide, breathing through his nose. I smooth my thumb across his cheek where my cock is pushing against the inside of it.
"That's plenty, sweetheart. Don't push. Just stay there."
He stays there.
"Hollow your cheeks for me."
He hollows his cheeks. The pressure goes through me hot and bright. I exhale slow.
"Fuck, baby."
He hums—pleased, proud, the small private sound he makes when he's been told he's done something well—and the vibration travels up the length of me and lodges in my spine.
"Now move. Slow. You set the pace. Take what you can take."
He moves.
He pulls back almost off, sucks at the head, sinks back down.
Again. Halting at first, finding the rhythm.
He's never had me in his mouth like this—never had me alone, never had time, never had me telling him what to do this clearly.
He's a quick study. He figures out what makes me catch my breath.
Figures out what makes my hand tighten in his hair.
Gets bolder. Takes me deeper. His hands are still locked behind his back the way I told him, even though I can see his arms shaking with how badly he wants to touch.
"Look at you. Such a good boy. You like this, don't you?"
He nods around me. Eyes wet.
"You like being on your knees for me?"
He nods harder. Makes that pleased hum again.
"Tell me, sweetheart. Off for a second. Tell me."
He pulls off, slow, a string of spit connecting his bottom lip to the head of my cock for one obscene second before it breaks. His mouth is wrecked. Lips swollen and slick.
"I love it," he breathes. Hoarse. "Atlas—I love—"
"Mm?"
"I love being on my knees for you."
God, I’ll never get tired of hearing that.
"Open up again, baby."
He opens. I push my cock back into his mouth, slower now, deeper now, and he takes it with his eyes locked on mine and tears just starting to gather at the corners. His own cock is hard again between his thighs, untouched, leaking onto the duvet.
I can feel myself building. The bond is so wide between us I can feel his arousal as a second heat in my own gut. I'm not going to come in his mouth. Not tonight. I want to be in him when I do.
"Off, sweetheart. Off."
He pulls off. Reluctant. Lips chasing the head of my cock for one more second before he lets it go.
"On your back. Now."
He lays back.
He's flushed all the way down his chest. Cock leaking.
Mouth open and obscene and desperate. I settle between his thighs, push them up and back with my hands until his knees are bent toward his chest and he's open for me, slick smeared down to his hamstrings, his hole flushed and twitching from where my tongue and my fingers were.
"Atlas—Atlas, please—"
I take myself in hand. Drag the head of my cock slow along the inside of his thigh.
"Tell me how you want it, sweetheart."
"...what?"
"How you want me to fuck you. Use your words."
His face goes redder. He turns his head into the pillow.
"Atlas—"
"Look at me."
He looks at me. Eyes wet. Mouth open.
"Tell me. How. You want it."
"I—I don't know how to—"
"Yes you do."
I drag the head of my cock down over his hole. Press there—just the tip, just enough to make him feel the threat of it—and pull back. He sobs. His hips chase me.
"Atlas, please—"
"Words, baby."
"I—you know how I—"
"I want to hear you say it."
I rub the head of my cock in slow circles around his entrance. Smear his slick around. Press the tip in just enough that his rim catches and stretches around the head, and then pull out before he can take it. He whimpers, hips jerking up off the duvet.
"Please—"
"What do you want, Max?"
"I want—"
"Mm?"
"...I want you to fuck me."
"How?"
"Atlas—"
"How, sweetheart?”
I press in again. The head. Just the head. Slow. Hold it there. Don't move.
He makes a sound that's almost a sob.
"...slow."
"Slow how."
"Slow and—deep. I want to feel you. All of you."
"Mm."
"I want—" He swallows. His face is on fire. "I want it to last. I want to know I had you. After you're gone—I want to be able to feel where you were."
The breath leaves my lungs.
I stay where I am—just the head of me inside him, his rim stretched tight around the swell of it, his eyes locked on mine and wet and wide open—and I take a beat to feel what that just did to me.
"...sweetheart."
"...is that—"
"That's perfect, baby. That's perfect."
His chin trembles.
"Don't move. Hands above your head."
He puts his hands above his head.
"Good boy."
I sink in.
I push the rest of the way in to the hilt in one long unbroken slide, slow, watching his face the whole way.
He's so wet and so open from my mouth and my fingers that there's no resistance—just heat, just the slick give of him, just the way his eyes roll back when the head of me drags over the spot inside him that makes him jerk.
The sound he makes is wrecked. The bond between us roars so wide I lose track of where my body ends and his begins.
I hold there.
Buried to the hilt. Hips flush to the back of his thighs. His hands above his head where I told him to keep them, fingers clenched in the pillow. His chest is heaving. His cock is trapped between us, leaking onto his own stomach.
"There you are, sweetheart."
"...Atlas."
"Right there. I've got you."
I fuck him slow.
Slow just like he wanted. The kind of slow I have been planning for hours—every drag of my cock long enough that he feels me leave and feels me come back, every push deep enough that the head of him drags against my stomach.
His legs hooked over my arms. His hands fisted in the duvet above his head.
His face open, mouth slack, eyes wet and on mine the whole time.
"Look at me, sweetheart."
He does.
"Right there. Eyes on me."
"Atlas—"
"Tell me who this is."
"You—"
"Mm."
"You, Atlas—"
I feel my knot starting to swell against him. Catch on the rim of him with every push back in. He whimpers. Hooks one leg higher. Tries to pull me deeper.
"You want it, baby?"
"Yes—"
"Want me to knot you?"
"Yes—Atlas, please—"
"Then take it."
I drive in deep. My knot drags hot along his rim, swelling fast now, and he whines—high, broken, the sound of an omega's body registering what's coming—and his hands fly down from above his head to fist in the duvet at his sides.
"Hands back up, sweetheart."
"Atlas—it's—"
"Hands. Up."
He puts them back. Knuckles white in the pillow. His hole stretches and stretches around the swell of me.
"I know, baby. I know. Almost there."
I push.
The knot catches one more time, drags hot along his rim, and then locks inside him in the same heartbeat I tip over the edge.
I come buried in him to the hilt, his body clenched tight around the knot, my cock pulsing deep inside him, hot and long and a relief I have been carrying under my skin all night.
He sobs against my throat. I bite down on the bond mark Bane put there, gentle, just teeth, and ride my own orgasm out with my mouth on him and his hands back where I told him to keep them and the bond between us pulsing so bright between us I think briefly I'll see it if I close my eyes.
I do close my eyes.
I do see it.
When I come back into my body, he's still shaking under me. Whining. Stretched too full and trapped and not yet allowed his own release.
"...Atlas—"
"Shh, baby. I've got you."
"It's—it's so much—"
"I know. Look at you. Taking it so well."
His face is wet. His mouth is open. His hands are still locked above his head where I told him to keep them—Christ, he's good, he's so good—and his cock is trapped between us, dark and leaking and twitching every time my knot pulses inside him.
I plant one hand flat on his lower belly. Just below his navel. Press down slow.
He yelps.
"There it is."
"Atlas—oh—oh—"
I roll my hips. Just a little. Drag the knot a fraction of an inch deeper, grind against the spot I just found from the inside and the outside both—my hand pressing down, my knot pressing up—and his whole body locks.
"That's it, sweetheart. Right there."
"Atlas—I can't—I'm—"
"You can. Come for me, baby."
I press down harder. Roll my hips again. Slower this time, deeper, the knot rocking against him from the inside, my palm working him from above.
He breaks.
He comes between us with my hand on his belly and my knot lodged against his prostate and his cock untouched, hands still above his head where I told him to keep them.
His release pulses up his stomach in long thick stripes, hot against my palm, and the clench of him around my knot draws a second pulse out of me—shorter, deeper, my hips jerking forward into him without my permission.
He cries out. I groan into his throat. The bond between us flares so wide and bright I lose the room for a second.
When I come back into my body, he's wrecked underneath me. Boneless. Breath ragged. His come is cooling on his belly, his cock still twitching weakly against his stomach, the bond between us soft and dazed and pulsing slow.
I don't ease back the way I would any other night.
I reach across him to the nightstand. There's a small black case sitting next to the dish of sweets, the kind I keep in my breast pocket every time I'm out of the house. I unscrew the cap with one hand. Bring it to my nose. Breathe in once, slow.
The effect hits in three seconds.
My knot, locked thick inside him, releases—not gently, the way it would on its own time, but fast, the swell going down inside me the way a held breath goes out of a body.
I pull free of him in one long smooth motion and his rim flutters around the loss, slick and come spilling down onto the duvet, his whole body twitching at the sudden empty.
He blinks up at me, dazed.
"...Atlas? What was—"
I flip him.
Hand at his hip, hand at his shoulder—I roll him onto his stomach in one motion, drag him up onto his knees, palm flat between his shoulder blades to push his chest down into the pillow with his ass up. He gasps. Doesn't fight. Hands scrabbling for purchase in the duvet on either side of his head.
"Atlas—"
I drive in.
Hard. Deep. To the hilt in one stroke and then deeper, hips slamming flush against the back of his thighs, the angle pushing me somewhere I haven't been all night. The breath punches out of his lungs in a sound that isn't a word.
"Atlas—"
"Something new we're rolling out, sweetheart." My voice has gone hoarse, dropped into the alpha-low register I haven't been using all night. "Cuts the recovery to nothing. Handy, isn't it?"
"What—"
"You said you wanted to feel me after I was done with you."
I fist his hair. Pull his head back off the pillow.
"Did you mean it?"
"...y-yes—"
"Then I'm not done with you."
I start fucking him in earnest.
Not the slow gentle fucking from before.
This is different. Harder. Deeper. The kind of fucking I have been holding back from him for months because he wasn't ready and I knew it.
He's ready now. He's loose and slick and stretched and wrecked and saying my name into the pillow with every thrust, and the only word in my head is—
Mine.
I drive into him again. Hand still in his hair.
Mine.
The sound of my hips against his ass is obscene in the dim of the suite. He's pushing back against me, taking it, cock hanging hard between his thighs again, slick smeared down to his knees.
Mine.
I bend over him. Mouth at the back of his neck. Bite down on the bond mark again and his whole body bows up off the bed.
Mine.
"Atlas—Atlas, I'm—"
"Yes, baby."
"Again—Atlas, I'm gonna come again—"
"Yes."
Mine.
He breaks for the third time with my teeth in his bond mark and my cock buried to the hilt and my knot already starting to swell again, faster than nature, the product working in reverse now.
The clench of him around me drags a second orgasm out of me before I'm ready for it.
I lock inside him. Knot swelling fast. My weight pressing him flat into the bed, my arm clamped tight around his ribs, my mouth at his throat.
I come with that single word in my head and his body trembling under mine and the bond between us pulsing so wide I lose the city, lose the hotel, lose the room, lose everything except the heat of him and the weight of him and the absolute certainty.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.