Chapter 8 #2
Slick and open and swollen, flushed deep and wet, more slick pooling as I look at her and breathe her in and feel both cocks pulse with the specific, heavy urgency of one month of patience ending.
I want to push into her right now—the wanting is total and warm and present, filling up the space behind my ribs—and I don't. I have been patient this long. I can be patient a little longer.
I press the head of the upper cock to her entrance. Just the head—the stretch of it, the cold, the vibration starting low—and I hold there without pushing in and listen.
"Please." Into the desk. She couldn't stop it.
"Please what?" I press forward a fraction, just enough that she feels the head seat. The slick heat of her right there, just around the tip, and my balls pulling tight with it. "Please more? Please stop?" I push another fraction. "Please fuck you?"
"Please." Just the word, with everything underneath it packed in and pressed down.
"Ask properly."
Her hips strain back. I hold them still and wait. She is shaking—a fine full-body tremor—and the sounds she's making are small and bitten and furious, and I feel each one at the base of my shaft.
"Please." Barely audible. Each syllable furious. "Please fuck me."
I press in an inch.
One inch—the upper cock seated just past her entrance, the stretch and the cold and the vibration at base frequency—and I stop.
I feel her. She is extraordinary: hot and slick and clenching around just the head of me, her body trying to draw me deeper while her hands grip the desk edge and her jaw is tight with the effort of not asking again.
A bead of silver wells at the tip of me, inside her. I feel it and breathe.
She is going to feel so full when I take her properly.
The thought arrives with complete clarity.
Both cocks, both knots, her split open and shaking with nowhere to go—I have been building toward this for one month and the reality of her clenched tight around one inch of me is better than the planning of it in every particular.
Her slick coats the head of the upper shaft, running warm over my skin, and I want to push in until my hips are flush against her and feel her body struggle to accommodate all of it. I don't.
"Breathe," I say, against the back of her neck.
"Please—" Ragged. Her hips straining back against my hands.
"I know." I reach around instead, press my thumb where she needs it, work slow circles. "Tell me what you feel."
"I can't—"
"Tell me."
"You're—" A whimper, bitten back. "You're cold. Inside. And the vibration—"
"Yes." I press my thumb harder and feel her clench tight around the head of me. My balls draw in. "And when I fill you properly—both cocks—you'll feel the stretch everywhere. You won't be able to think past it."
"Stop—"
"The knot," I say, pleasant and quiet against her ear, thumb still moving. "Mist Court. It shifts. Fills every space. You won't be able to move and you won't want to."
She comes apart.
Not the way I will take her apart tomorrow—not the full obliteration the heat makes possible—but real, clenching hard around the head of my cock, her whole body shaking, a long broken sound rising out of her that echoes in the study.
I feel it through my shaft: the flutter and clench and flood of her, her slick pouring around the head of me, her pulse rapid and desperate where she grips the desk.
My balls pull in tight. Both cocks throb with it.
I stay completely still and breathe her in and let her feel every second of coming on just the head of me with nothing else.
I let her come all the way down.
Then I pull out.
The sound she makes—the specific bereft note of it, her body registering the loss before her mind catches up—I intend to remember for a long time.
I step back and let the cold air reach her, the pre-heat cresting with nowhere to go.
Her hands are flat on the desk. She is breathing in ragged pulls, flushed from her hairline to the open back of her bodice, still shaking slightly.
"Turn around," I say. "Come here."
I sit in the chair by the fire. She turns from the desk and sees me—both cocks out and hard in the firelight, the upper slick with her, the lower aching and untouched, my balls drawn full and heavy—and she goes very still. Her lips part. Her eyes move over me and she forgets, briefly, to look away.
There it is. The look underneath the look, the one she can't cover. Fury and want and the pre-heat making war with the professional face and the professional face losing by a considerable margin.
I hold out my hand.
She looks at it. She looks at me. Then she crosses the room and takes it, and I pull her down into my lap—facing out, her back to my chest, her legs arranged over my thighs because I put them there and she doesn't stop me.
Both cocks press against the backs of her bare thighs with nothing between us, and the sound she makes is very small and very genuine.
I turn her head with my hand at her jaw and kiss her.
Deep and slow. She gasps into my mouth and her hands come up to grip my forearms—and then she kisses me back.
Before she decides to. Because her body has already decided, and her body is winning everything today.
She tastes of the cold morning air and the heat building in her and something specific and hers, and I kiss her until the grip of her hands loosens into something else.
I pull back.
"Give me your hand," I say, against her mouth.
"What—"
I take her hand and bring it down, wrap her fingers around the lower cock.
It is thick—thicker than the upper, straight where the upper curves, and when I am this hard the weight of it pulls—and she cannot close her hand around it.
I feel her try. Feel her adjust, her fingers finding the underside, pressing in, and the sensation goes straight through the root of both shafts at once and I breathe through it slowly.
The sound she makes—shocked and wanting and furious with herself—is one I haven't heard from her before. Her fingers tighten around the lower shaft before she's decided to tighten them.
"Both hands," I say.
"I'm not going to—"
"Both hands, Miss Merris."
Her second hand comes down. I wrap my own fist around the upper cock and start moving, and there is her warmth on the lower shaft, her pulse beating against it, and my hand slick with her from the desk on the upper, and every stroke pulls sensation through the shared root of both at once.
The upper curving into my grip, flushed and tight.
The lower throbbing in her palms beneath it.
The feeling of both together, with her hands on one of them, is categorically different from one month of managing this alone and considerably better.
My balls are already drawing in. I have not been at this for thirty seconds.
I press her back against my chest and put my mouth on her neck.
"Tighten your grip."
She does. The pre-heat moving her hands before she decides to, and I feel the exact moment she realises what she's done—the small spike of self-loathing, the furious pause—and I drag my teeth along her throat and her hands tighten further and the lower cock throbs hard against her palms and she makes a sound herself, low and involuntary, that she immediately hates.
I work faster. Her slick on my fist makes every stroke filthy and easy, and I am hard enough that each one aches, my balls full and tight, the specific weight of one month of wanting her right there beneath my hands—her in my lap, her pulse in my lower shaft, her slick on the upper, both shafts aching and the thought of tomorrow already arriving before today is finished.
Tomorrow I will spend inside her.
Both cocks. Both knots. Her unable to move and shaking and taking all of it.
"The Merris line," I say, against her throat.
"No omega blood." I bite down lightly and feel her gasp and her hands tighten.
"And here you are. Soaked. Both hands on my cock and tightening your grip when I tell you to.
" I press my lips to the line of her jaw.
"Almost as if something about you doesn't match the file. "
"Don't—" Her voice is breaking. "Don't—"
"Don't what?"
She doesn't answer. Her head tips back against my shoulder.
Her hands are moving now—small involuntary strokes, up and down the lower shaft, the pre-heat running her—and I say nothing, I work my fist faster and feel everything gathering at the root of both cocks at once, the specific pulling weight of it.
I turn the magic to one hundred.
Five seconds. Her cry is genuine and helpless, her whole body seizing against mine, her hands gripping the lower shaft so hard it borders on pain and I don't care, I feel it through the shared root, the transmission of her grip, and the pleasure that goes through me is sudden and sharp enough that I almost go with her.
I drop the magic back to seventy-five before it does.
She slumps against me. Whimpering—long and wretched and furious—her chest heaving, her hands still fisted around the lower cock because she has forgotten everything else.
I work the upper hard and fast. Her slick on my knuckles and her pulse in my lower shaft and the thought of tomorrow, both cocks inside her and the knot forming and her clenching around it unable to move, and the release hits—cool and silver first, pouring through both shafts at once, over my fist and her hands and her thighs.
Then the second wave, hotter, and I groan against her hair and hold her through it and feel her feel the warmth of it landing and the sound she makes is nothing like Clara.
I come down slowly.
She is covered in me. Silver on her thighs, on her hands still loosely holding the lower cock, bright and cooling in the firelight.
I look at her over her shoulder—flushed and wrecked and in my lap, my seed on her skin and her own slick underneath, both cocks still half-hard and wanting—and I find I am not done looking.
Tomorrow I will spend inside her, deep inside her, and she will feel every wave of it from the inside.
The thought sits in me with a particular warmth.
I reach for the hem of her skirt and clean her.
Slowly. Methodically—her thighs first, then her hands, then every inch of skin the silver touched, until there is nothing left on her and her skirts are ruined and she is as close to unmarked as she can be, which is not very close at all given the state of her.
She goes very still while I do it. The shame and the fury moving through her, and underneath both the pre-heat still burning, her body too far gone to do anything with shame but burn hotter.
I drop her skirts.
"You did well," I say, against her hair. Meaning it entirely.
She says nothing. Her breathing is still unsteady, and her hands have left the lower cock and are gripping my forearm instead, and she has not moved to get up.
The fire is warm. The magic is at seventy-five. The night has not yet started.
I wait.
She will ask. Tonight, or at first light.
She will.