4. Alas #2
I move to the left breast. Claim it just as violently.
Biting, sucking, licking the slick wetness of my saliva off her skin.
Worshipping the weight of her tits. Biting the soft underside.
Sucking another mark next to the first. Leaving a row of red, blooming claims along the curve of her flesh.
She fists my hair in both hands. Her hips chase the heavy ridge of my cock through the stiff canvas of her suit and the denim of my jeans.
She grinds her hips up into mine. A frantic, uncoordinated thrust. Begging for the pressure. Begging for the ridge of my cock.
I’m painfully hard. My balls ache with a thick pressure. A vicious demand to bury myself hilt-deep inside her. To stretch her walls. To fill her with my seed and mark her permanently.
But not here. Not in the dirt.
The agonizing restraint is a physical torture. A fire burning my muscles from the inside out. I won’t take her against a wooden box in the cold. She gets the honey shed. She gets my undivided focus in the only sanctuary she ever built for herself.
But I need to feel her. I need to know how wet she is for me.
I reach down. Grab the bunched canvas at her waist.
Shoving past the thin cotton of her underwear.
The heat of her pussy hits my hand like a furnace.
She’s soaking wet. Drenched. The slick coats my fingers the second I find her. The wetness soaks the cotton of her panties. Physical proof of her surrender.
I find the hard, swollen bud of her clit.
Press my rough thumb against the hood.
I hold it there. No movement. Just the brutal weight of my hand. Letting her feel where my touch lives now. My free hand slides up the canvas of her suit and grips the back of her neck. Anchoring her. The bees crawl in lazy lines across my forearms.
She whimpers. Tries to push her hips against my hand to make me move. I don't.
I make her wait. I make her feel the weight of my hand, my thumb pressing the swollen nub of her clit, skin to skin. I make her body learn what it means to be held still by me.
Then I move.
I press down. A heavy pressure. No penetration. I refuse to slip my fingers inside her walls. I refuse to cross that line until I can give her everything at once.
I just rub the clit.
Fast, hard, tight circles. Pushing the slick over the swollen bundle of nerves.
"Alas," she sobs out. My name. A desperate, broken prayer.
"Take it," I command. "Take what I give you."
My fingers slide through the slick coating her folds.
Soaked. Drenched. The wet, slapping sound of my hand on her pussy is filthy in the cold morning.
Every motion of my thumb pulls a fresh wave of her arousal out of her body.
The slick coats my knuckles, the inside of her thighs, the canvas of her suit pressed against my forearm.
The scent of her sex blooms in the air between us—dark, musky, animal.
It mixes with the warm clover honey and the scorched pine smoke.
It’s the most filthy, sacred thing I’ve ever inhaled.
"You don't get to cum quietly," I breathe against her mouth. "I want them to hear you. I want every man on that trail to hear what belongs to me."
I grind my cock against her thigh. Pumping my hips in time with the rapid circles of my thumb. The rough fabric scraping against her leg. The agonizing friction driving me insane. Precum leaks from my cock, a hot, sticky drop staining the inside of my jeans.
The scent of her arousal fills the narrow space between the hive boxes.
A dark, musky, intensely feminine scent.
It mixes with the raw clover honey and the smoke from the cold smoker.
It’s the most intoxicating drug I’ve ever breathed in.
It unmakes me. It makes the beast in my chest roar for blood and possession.
She thrashes against the wood. Her legs trembling.
I keep the pressure unyielding. Working her clit with relentless, mechanical precision. Spreading her slick over her folds. The wet, slapping sound of my fingers against her soaked pussy echoes under the hum of the bees.
"Mine." I grind my hips forward again. Crushing her against the box. "You hear me? Mine."
"Yes." She gasps it out. A submission. "Yes."
She tips over the edge.
Her body bows outward. Her spine arching off the wood. A violent, shattering climax breaking through her muscles. She cries out, a loud, high wail that bounces off the timber windbreak.
Her pussy clenches aggressively. Spasming hard against the heel of my hand. Pumping more hot slick over my fingers.
I hold her there. Keep the pressure on her hyper-sensitive clit while the aftershocks roll through her body. Grinding my aching cock against her thigh one last, desperate time.
Her thighs lock around my forearm. Her cunt clenches against the heel of my hand in long, ragged pulses.
The slick floods my palm. I keep working her through it.
Every aftershock she gives me, I press my thumb against her clit and drag a fresh shudder out of her body.
I want to feel every single one. I want her to know I’m the source.
The bees hum louder. The queen vibrates against my hand where it rests on the wood. The hive knows. The hive accepts her surrender as part of the territory now.
The bees are still humming. A few lazily crawl over my bare knuckles as my hand rests low against her stomach, still inside her open suit. Utterly unbothered by the claiming that just happened inches away from their hive.
She slumps forward. Her forehead dropping against my sternum. Panting. Wrecked.
I pull my hand out of her pants.
The cold mountain wind hits my soaked fingers. They’re coated in her slick. Shining and wet.
I bring my hand up. Stop right in front of her face.
She opens her eyes. Dazed, dark, blown-out pupils staring at me.
I maintain unbroken eye contact as I press two fingers into my mouth.
Suck the slick off my own skin.
Taste her. Taste the salt, the honey, the dark, rich flavor of her arousal.
She whimpers at the sight. Her legs nearly give out.
The flavor of her stays on my tongue. I press my thumb against her lower lip and drag it across her mouth, leaving a streak of her own slick on her flushed skin. She parts her lips automatically. Her tongue darts out and tastes herself on my thumb. A groan drags out of me.
"Get used to that taste," I breathe. "I'm going to be feeding it to you for the rest of your life."
I catch her. Wrap my clean arm around her waist and haul her upright.
I pull the gray tank top back down over her tits. Grab the shoulders of the canvas bee suit and haul them back up her arms. Yank the metal zipper all the way up to her collarbone, sealing her back inside the armor.
The restraint is actively killing me. My cock is a throbbing, agonizing length of pain inside my jeans. My balls ache with the desperate need to empty into her.
I take a long, deliberate breath. The scent of her sex is still on my hands.
Still in my mouth. The wet patch where my own precum has soaked through the front of my jeans presses against my cock with every breath.
I’m painfully hard. My balls are a tight, aching knot.
Every cell in my body is screaming to unzip my jeans and finish what I started against this hive box.
I don't. Not because she's not ready. She’s ready—shaking and drenched and watching me with blown-out eyes. I don't take her here because the dirt isn’t good enough for the first time my cock is inside her. The honey shed is hers. That’s where I’ll claim her properly.
Not against a wooden box in the cold morning while a Syndicate trail snakes through the woods fifty yards behind us.
I step back. Putting one foot of space between us.
The cold air rushes in, cooling the sweat on my neck.
I look at the tree line. The southern trail. The path the Syndicate thinks they can claim.
Let them come. Let them bring every single body they have. I have a reason to stay now. I have a reason to hold the line.
I look back at her. She’s leaning heavily against Colony D. Still trembling. Still smelling of my saliva and her own explosive climax.
"Finish your inspection," I say. My voice is flat. Deadened by the force of the control required to not throw her to the ground and take her in the dirt. I don't move. I hold my ground three feet away, the violent, unspent rage locked in my chest, and watch her.