4. Teddy #3
My teeth find the meat of his pec again, right above the first bite, the firm muscle, and I press down, and the taste of iron is there again, and he sobs, and his nails break skin on my back, and the knot swells.
I slam to the hilt. Hold.
The knot goes fast. Faster than the first time, bigger.
The full swollen lock of an alpha in rut, the base of me thickening until I feel his rim stretch around it, catch, hold.
I can feel him taking it. Feel his walls clenching and releasing, the specific resistance of the lock setting.
And then I'm stuck, I'm locked, I can't pull out and neither can he, and the knot presses against the spot inside him that makes his whole body jolt, and I grind it there, and I come.
I come in waves that don't stop.
Pulse after pulse, deep inside him, and this time there's nothing holding it back.
The release the knot tried to give me an hour ago, the one my body reached for and couldn't find — it's here now, everything at once, and I can feel him filling.
Feel the wet heat of it, the pressure, the knot trapping everything inside so there's nowhere for it to go but deeper.
His body is shaking under me, around me, his walls clenching on my knot in rhythmic waves that match my own, and every clench pulls another pulse out of me, every pulse makes him clench harder, and we're locked in a loop that I can't stop and don't want to stop.
He comes.
Untouched. His cock pulses between our bellies, hot come smearing up his chest and mine, and he cries out, long, broken, a sound I'm going to replay in my head until I die, and the clench of him around my knot is so hard that it pulls another wave out of me, and another, and we're coming together, locked, stuck, his body pulling, my body giving, the room wet and warm, the scent of us so thick I can taste it.
I stay deep.
The rut begins to recede, simmering somewhere below my ribs, still there, but the thought-compressing part lifts.
Like surfacing from deep water. I can hear the room again.
The bass from the main floor, steady and far away.
My own breathing, ragged, against the side of his face. His breathing, ragged against mine.
I'm on top of a man on a concrete floor.
I've bitten him.
My mouth is bloody.
I lift my head slowly.
I look down.
He's beneath me. The mask is still on. Hair damp at the temples, the only hair I've seen of his, sticking out at the edges of the mask in dark, sweat-plastered strands.
The shirt is torn open from sternum to waist, half-hanging off one shoulder, the collar ripped askew by my fist. Throat bare.
The bite mark on his pec is bleeding. A real mark, the skin broken in a ragged oval, blood tracking in a thin line down toward his ribs, mixing with his own come where he pulsed onto himself.
His hands, still gripping my biceps, are tight, nails in, not relaxing.
His legs are still locked around my waist, ankles crossed, holding me in.
His whole body is very still.
I look at his face.
Behind the mask, the eye holes are small.
His eyes are dark behind them. And I've been reading people my whole life, because I've had to, because being this size means learning to see what people are feeling before they say it, because saying the wrong thing at this size is dangerous.
I notice, before I have words for it, what I'm really seeing.
His eyes are wet.
Really wet. The kind of wet that's been wet for some time.
There's a tear track on the small strip of skin below the bottom edge of the mask, visible in the dim light. It's clean. It's not fresh. It's been there a while.
I follow the track with my eyes. There's another one on the other side. Both cheeks.
He's crying. He's been crying. He's been crying for some portion of this I didn't see. The rut had my head. I didn't feel him cry. The bite was hard, but he came on it. The sex was feral, but he went with me, his body went with me, and I thought, I thought it was all, I thought.
The crying isn't from me.
It's from something else. Something earlier. Something I said, or something he said, or the thing in the silence after I told him nobody looks at me, when his fingertips stopped moving on my bruise and didn't start again.
And there's no holding it back. I'm still inside him. I'm locked to him. I can barely think, and I can't say it right. I open my mouth.
"Oh."
A beat. A breath. I feel him go still beneath me. The still of someone who's been caught at something.
"Oh. You're crying."
He doesn't answer.
Doesn't move.
Hands in my biceps tight. Eyes behind the mask locked on mine. For maybe a full second he's not breathing.
I lift one hand slowly, because the last thing I did was break a restraint system and bite a man, and I know what my hands can do right now, and this isn't that. I brush my thumb along the bottom edge of his mask, where the tear track is. My thumb comes away wet.
I look at the wet on my thumb.
I look at him.
He's looking at me like he's waiting for something. The way you wait when you've been seen and you don't know what happens next.
I don't say anything else.
I lower my head slowly. I put my forehead against the hollow of his throat, above the bite I left on his chest, where the skin is warm and bare and I can feel his pulse.
I close my eyes. I breathe him in, the real scent of him, now that the rut is lifting.
Salt, cedar, the sweet underneath. Copper from the bite. Sweat. Tears.