11. Wren #2
“Then I’ll buy him a new one.” I curl my fingers again, and he gasps. “More?”
“More,” he breathes. “Please, Wren, I can take it.”
Three. He gasps, his whole body going taut, and I hold perfectly still, buried to the last knuckle.
My other hand rests flat on his stomach, thumb rubbing circles.
I can feel the tension in his abs, the way his muscles are clenching and releasing around my fingers as his body figures out how to make room.
His breathing stutters, short, shallow pulls, and then he blows out one long exhale, and I feel him open, deliberately, the ring of muscle softening like a decision.
“Good,” I tell him, and his cock jerks against his belly at the word. I file that away somewhere permanent. “Letting me in like that. Good.”
When his hips start grinding down on my hand, greedy and shameless, I know he’s ready.
I keep working him open anyway, scissoring gently, dragging my fingers in and out while my mouth stays on his balls, sucking one then the other, licking up the underside of his cock without giving him the relief of full suction.
I want him shaking. I want him desperate before I give him my knot.
His cock is leaking steadily, a clear thread connecting the tip to the mess on his stomach. He’s making these punched-out little sounds every time I drag my fingers over his prostate, and his thighs are trembling hard against my shoulders.
I pull my fingers out. He whines at the loss, hole clenching on nothing, and I coat my cock with what’s on my palm and add more lube because I’m not rushing this. I line up, the tip pressing against his wet hole, and I pause.
“Look at me.”
He does. Eyes huge, lashes wet, lips bitten red.
I push in.
Slow. So slow it’s torture for both of us.
The head of my cock pops past his rim and his hole flutters around me, hot and tight even with all the slick and all the prep.
He grabs my forearms, breathing “fuck, fuck, okay” into my collarbone while I hold myself perfectly still, barely inside him, every muscle locked so I don’t slam forward.
“Breathe,” I tell him. Tell myself.
He breathes. His body softens by degrees, and there’s a moment where his muscles stop fighting and start wanting. I rock forward another inch, then another, letting him feel every fraction. The wet sound of it is filthy and perfect.
“Talk to me,” he says into my collarbone. Small. “Tell me what—I need you to tell me.”
So I do, and I’m not a talker; I’ve said maybe forty words to him tonight, but it turns out I can do this.
“Halfway. You’re taking me halfway, and you’re so wet it’s running down my balls.
” His hole clenches at that, and we both groan.
“A little more. There. Feel that? That’s the thick part.
You’ve got it.” His nails dig in. “You’ve got it, Soren. You’ve got all of it.”
When I finally bottom out, hips flush against his ass, we both go still.
Being inside him completely, his body wrapped tight around every inch of my cock, steals the air out of me.
He’s clenching in these helpless little pulses, each one shooting straight up my spine.
I hold there, not moving, feeling him adjust. His nails bite into my forearms. Slowly, the tension in his face melts into something dazed and wanting.
It’s so right it almost hurts. Like something in me finally lined up the way it was supposed to.
“Move,” he whispers. “Please.”
I move.
Pull back until just the head is stretching his hole, then slide in deep and steady, finding a rhythm that lets me feel every inch of him.
His hands slide up to my shoulders, nails digging in as I find the angle that makes his voice break on my name.
I keep it slow, grinding on every downstroke so my pelvis drags against his cock trapped between us.
Every time I bottom out, more slick gushes around me, soaking into the nest beneath us.
It builds. Skin on skin, the obscene wet slide, his voice breaking, my own breathing ragged. He starts meeting my thrusts, rolling his hips up, and the angle shifts and he cries out, clenching so hard around me my rhythm stutters completely.
My knot starts to swell. The pressure at my base, thick and heavy, and I slow down. Press my forehead to his.
“It’s coming,” I say against his mouth. “My knot. Tell me if it’s too much.”
His legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into the small of my back, pulling me closer. “Don’t you dare stop. I want it. I want all of you, Wren—give it to me.”
I thrust deeper. The knot catches on his rim, fat and insistent, and he gasps, mouth falling open.
I rock in tiny movements, working the widest part against his stretched hole while he pants and shakes.
Each push drags the thickest part against his rim, not quite in, not quite out, and his face is a wreck.
Mouth open, brows drawn, caught between the burn and the desperate need for more.
“Relax for me. Let me in.”
He whines, high and needy, and bears down.
I push through in one long, steady press.
The resistance builds, his rim stretching wide, and he sucks in a sharp breath, fingers scrabbling at my back.
Then the knot pops past and swells instantly, locking us together, and the relief hits both of us.
His whole body shudders. Mine goes boneless for a second before every nerve lights back up.
The tight heat around my base is so good it borders on painful.
We’re tied. My knot is so swollen I couldn’t pull out if I tried, and the way his body flutters and milks me around it draws my balls up tight.
“Don’t move,” he gasps. “Don’t—just—“
“I’m not.” I couldn’t. “I’m not going anywhere. Look where I am.”
He laughs, wet and cracked, and the laugh clenches him around my knot and turns into a moan halfway out, and I have to put my face in his neck and count.
Ceiling. Grain of the headboard. The seven small shapes on the shelf, watching.
I’m not coming yet. Not before him. Not before he’s ready for what I’m about to ask.
We breathe. That’s all it is for a minute, maybe two.
His chest against mine, his heartbeat slowing from panicked to something deep and heavy, the two of us tied together in a nest of his friends’ blankets with my shirt bunched under his shoulder.
Every so often, his body remembers what’s inside it and squeezes; every so often, I remember I’m a person and not a pulse, and neither of us says anything.
Nobody else gets this. Just me. Just us.
My mouth is already at his neck. I didn’t put it there on purpose. It’s where my mouth goes now, apparently, lips against the hot skin over his gland, his pulse hammering under my tongue, the scent of him so thick here I could drown in it and call it a good death.
“Wren.” His hand finds the back of my head. Holds it there. Doesn’t pull me closer, doesn’t push me away. Just holds. “You’re thinking.”
“Yeah.”
“Stop.” His voice shakes. “I said it already. I’m sure. I’m—“ He tips his head, baring the whole line of his throat, offering it. “Please. I want to be yours while you’re inside me. I want it to be right now.”
If I bite him, that’s it. No going back. Not for him, not for me.
I’m not doing this because my biology is screaming at me, though it is. I’m doing it because he’s the person I’d choose in any universe, fated or not, and he asked me in a full sentence with clear eyes, and I want my mark on his skin for the rest of our lives.