Kyle #2
“Good,” he whines. He fucking whines. “Right there. God—”
“Tell me you want it,” I rumble, needing to hear it. “Tell me, Maxie.”
Max twitches as I press against that spot again, his cheeks darkening at the nickname I’ve only ever used when it’s just the two of us.
The thick cords of muscle in his thighs quiver as I finger-fuck him, and something about having this huge alpha writhing in pleasure beneath my fingers does something filthy to my brain.
He’s strong, and magnificent, and all fucking mine.
“I want it,” he groans when I let up enough for him to catch his breath. “Fuck, Ky, give it to me. I need you to fuck me.”
My alpha doesn’t wait for him to repeat it.
Max shivers as I pull my fingers out. My cock pulses in my hand, searingly hot and sensitive, as I line myself up with his slick entrance and drive my hips forward.
“God—”
We both curse in unison as I inch into his tight, tight heat. He’s stretched just enough from my fingers that I slide past his rim without much resistance, but inside he grips me like a glove, his mouth dropping open with a cross between pleasure and pain as I slide deeper.
“Look at me, Max,” I growl, pushing out more of my scent, as if being buried balls deep in his ass isn’t enough of a claim on him. “Look at your alpha.”
Max twists to look at me, and in all our years of friendship, I’ve never seen him look like this.
His eyes are half-lidded and heavy with arousal, his lips wet with spit, and then my gaze travels lower down the arch of his back, drawn to where his hole is stretched around my cock.
It’s obscene. He looks fucking wrecked, and it sends a primal wave of heat coursing through me.
I’m holding myself up with my one good arm, my core trembling as I fist my fingers in the sheets and try to hold back the completely overwhelming urge to fuck into him like an animal.
But Max can read me like a fucking book.
“Let go, Ky,” he rasps, rolling his hips to push his cock into the mattress and dragging his ass along my shaft in the process. “I can take it.”
I slam into him with a guttural groan, my resolve all used up. My rut-crazed brain stops thinking; the pain of my broken arm and the fear of taking too much from Max fades into nothingness as my focus narrows down to the brutal, violent need to fill him again and again.
I set a relentless, punishing pace, fire racing through my veins as I lose myself totally in the tight heat of his ass.
The room is filled with the sound of skin slapping as my hips meet the firm flesh of his ass over and over, and every perfect moan and broken cry that slips past his lips only spurs me on more.
Max’s back arches upwards when I hit that sweet spot inside him, his hand reaching round to grip the back of my thigh. But he isn’t fighting me, not one bit.
“So fucking good for me,” I mumble between groans, leaning down to nose at his scent gland, my chest pressing against his back, and preening when all I smell is my own scent. “So tight and perfect, Maxie. I’m gonna fill you all the way up, gonna breed you. Oh, f-fuck—”
“Holy shit, Kyle,” he cries, his forehead falling forward to press against the sheets as I pick up my pace. He sounds broken, his voice cracking as all the muscles in his back tense all at once. “Do it. Fill me up, alpha. Oh, fuck, Ky, I think I’m—you’re gonna make me—”
Max clenches around me, his ass convulsing around my length as his hips jerk, and holy shit.
He’s coming. Max, my Max, my best fucking friend, is shooting his load all over my bedsheets with my cock lodged so deep in his ass he’ll be feeling it for days.
And he’s covered in my scent, and he’s moaning my name like a fucking prayer, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that no omega has ever made me feel like this, rut or no rut.
“You’re mine, alpha,” I manage to choke out before my orgasm crashes over me. “All mine.”
And then I’m gone. I still inside him, balls deep, spilling spurt after spurt of cum into his ass as pleasure rips through my body so hard my vision blurs.
He squeezes around me, riding out the aftershocks into oversensitivity as I empty myself, whispering a nonsensical stream of mine and breed you and so good.
When my rational brain makes a comeback, we’re both breathing heavily.
Max is still pinned underneath me, and I’ve collapsed onto him, my broken arm resting awkwardly between my chest and his back, although I can barely feel it.
I’m still buried inside him, wetness seeping between our joined bodies.
“Ky, you good?” Max murmurs, his eyes fluttering against the sheets. I think he looks kind of… ethereal. Feeling dazed, I press a kiss to the back of his neck, and he smiles.
“Yeah,” I say. “You smell like me.”
He huffs a laugh. “Of course I do, dumbass.” He twists to try and look at me, which is difficult with my weight trapping him, but I’m not sure I’m capable of moving right now. “Shit, your arm.”
He pushes his weight back against me, rolling me off of him carefully, and I faintly wonder if he was capable of pushing me off the entire time.
“Hey,” I protest as I slip out of him, a stream of cum sliding down his thigh and joining the dark patch from where his cock was just smushed against the mattress.
I go to bury my nose in the wet patch, but Max pushes me back with a strong hand on my shoulder.
I reach for him, wanting to plug his hole back up with my still-throbbing cock, but he does the same thing again, pushing me back against the pillows.
Half an hour ago—fuck, thirty seconds ago—I wouldn’t have allowed it, but most of the agitation has drained from me after a couple of orgasms. It won’t last long, but for now I’m just enjoying the way the concern makes Max’s eyes look so soft.
“Keep still,” he says, taking my arm gently and feeling along the sling. “Does that hurt?”
“Can’t feel a thing,” I say, although I’m actually starting to feel a dull ache in my forearm. I stare at his lips.
Max frowns. I remember kissing that frown last night. “That’s probably not a good thing. Cast’s still intact though. How’s your wrist?”
“Fin—ah,” I hiss as I flex my healing wrist, the same one I’ve just used to hold up my own body weight for the last twenty minutes, and a jolt of pain shoots all the way up to my elbow. “Owch.”
“Okay, I’m getting you an ice pack.”
He makes to climb off the bed, but I lunge forward and grab him by the waist, ignoring the pain in my wrist. “You’re not going anywhere,” I say, the agitation returning all at once at the thought of him existing anywhere that isn’t this bed, specifically.
Max lets me pull him back into the sheets until he’s half-straddling me, but not all the way down like I want to.
“I don’t need anything. You can’t leave. ”
Kyle’s face softens. “I’m literally just going to the kitchen. I’ll be less than two minutes, I swear.”
I tighten my grip on his hip, digging my fingers in harder than I probably should. “Two minutes,” I growl, my rut demanding that I keep him locked in place.
Max leans down and presses a soft kiss against my scent gland, and I capture his lips as he’s coming back up, my hand threading into his hair and pulling him closer.
He sighs into the kiss, and I distantly wonder if he’s been thinking about this all day, too.
I don’t know how long we kiss for, but I know it’s so good I never want it to stop.
By the time we pull apart, our lips kiss-bitten and slick, I’m dazed enough that I don’t do anything to stop Max untangling himself from my arms and slipping off the edge of the mattress.
A chill hits me as soon as he steps out of my immediate space, a spike of panic souring my scent as I watch his naked form disappear through the door, even as the visible stiffness to his movements sends a wave of filthy pride through my chest. The only thing that stops me from stalking him through the apartment is the pain that’s returning to my broken arm and wrist at an alarming rate as the adrenaline fades from my system.
He’s back before the panic can turn into actual aggression, carrying a bag of ice wrapped in a dish towel, two bottles of water from the fridge, and my painkillers.
He doesn’t bother to pull any clothes back on before he slides under the duvet next to me, holding the ice gently against my wrist and brushing the stray hairs off my forehead.
“Take these,” he says, handing me two of the pills and a bottle of water.
“How do you know I haven’t already?” I ask, some of my usual smartass tone bleeding through as he frees my hand long enough for me to knock them back.
“Because I’ve been keeping track of how many pills are left in the bottle. You haven’t taken any since yesterday, idiot.”
He presses the ice back against my wrist, and it feels so good I could cry.
“Thank you,” I say, genuinely, and I hope the tremor in my voice tells him how much I mean it. So much more than I have the mental capacity to explain right now.
He gives me a long, steady look that tells me he gets it.
And then he pushes me back down into the pillows and lies his head on the flat expanse of my chest so I can bury my nose in his hair while he soothes my wrist, and the first tendrils of his softly returning scent seep into my lungs and somehow soothe everything else.