14. Lynn #3
“You taste incredible,” he says, and I can hear the strain in his voice. “Like honey and wanting and mine.”
“More - please-”
He gives me more.
Two fingers slide inside me while his tongue keeps working, and the combination undoes me. He curls them just right, drags them over the spot that makes my vision white out, and then I’m coming, hard and sudden and endless, grinding down against his mouth like I have no shame left, because I don’t.
I have to bite my pillow to muffle the sound.
He works me through it, gentling as I shudder, pressing soft kisses to my trembling thighs.
“There it is,” he murmurs against my thigh, wrecked and reverent. “Knew you’d be perfect. Knew it since the first day.”
I’m still catching my breath when I reach for him.
“Your turn.”
“You don’t have to-”
“I want to.” I pull at his shoulders until he moves up the bed, until we’re face to face, or face to vague shape, in my case. “Let me.”
I find the button of his pants by feel. Zipper next, then fabric pushed down his hips, and-
“Oh my god.”
He’s big.
I knew that. I felt that, in the library. But actually holding him, my fingers wrapped around his length-
“You’re huge.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Don’t apologize, it’s-” I stroke experimentally, and his whole body shudders. “It’s impressive. Like, structurally impressive.”
“You’re making engineering jokes while touching my cock.”
“My brain does weird things when I’m nervous.”
“You’re nervous?”
“Have you felt yourself? There’s a lot happening here.”
He laughs, and then he groans, because I’m still stroking him and apparently my grip is acceptable.
I slide down the bed.
“Lindsay - you really don’t-”
I lick the tip.
His hips jerk, and the sound he makes is beautiful.
I take him in my mouth, as much as I can manage, which isn’t as much as I’d like, and start to move. He’s hot and heavy on my tongue, and I can taste salt and skin and something uniquely him.
“Fuck.” His hand finds my hair, not pushing, just holding. “Your mouth - Lindsay-”
I hollow my cheeks and suck, and he swears in a language I don’t recognize.
I lose myself in it, the rhythm, the sounds he’s making, the way his thigh muscles are trembling under my hands. His breathing goes ragged, desperate.
And then I feel it.
At the base of his cock, something is growing.
I pull back slightly, confused, and my hand finds-
“What-”
“The knot.” His voice is wrecked. “I’m sorry, I should have warned you-”
“It’s getting bigger.”
“That’s what it does.”
I wrap my hand around it experimentally. It’s swollen, firm, pulsing with his heartbeat. The size of a small fist and still expanding.
“This goes inside?”
“When we - yes. It locks us together.” He sounds like he’s dying. “It’ll be bigger on ritual night. This is - this is just - Lindsay-”
I stroke the knot, and he comes.
Sudden and hard, pulsing over my hand and onto his stomach, his whole body jerking with the force of it. The sounds he makes are barely human, growls and groans and my name, over and over.
I work him through it, fascinated by the way the knot throbs under my palm.
“Jesus Christ,” he says when he can speak again. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“I understand now.”
“What?”
“Why we need practice.” I’m still holding the knot, feeling it slowly start to deflate. “This is… a lot.”
“Too much?”
“No.” I release him and crawl up his body, finding his mouth in the darkness. “Not too much. Just right.”
We kiss, slow and deep, tasting each other.
And then I feel him hardening again.
“Already?”
“Lycan recovery time.” He sounds almost sheepish. “I can ignore it if you-”
“Don’t ignore it.”
I straddle him, and we both gasp when his cock presses against me, not inside, just there, hot and hard and ready.
“Like this?” I roll my hips experimentally.
“Fuck - yes-”
We find a rhythm, grinding, sliding, the friction almost too much. He’s talking, a constant stream of filth and praise.
“There she is.” His voice is muffled against me, rough with wanting. “Dripping for me. All that mouth on you in class and this is what you really wanted, isn’t it, my hand and my tongue and me telling you how good you taste-”
“I want it.” I’m gasping, desperate. “I want you inside me-”
“Not today.” His hands grip my hips, guiding my movements faster. “Not when you can’t see me. Want to watch your face the first time I’m inside you. Want you to see me when I fill you up.”
“Milo-”
“Again. Give me another one, and then I’ll give you everything you’ve been squirming for since September-”
I come apart against his mouth, thighs clamped around his head, a sound tearing out of me I’ve never made before.
He follows a moment later, and we cling to each other through the aftershocks, shaking and sweating and utterly undone.
Eventually, we collapse.
He pulls me against him, my head on his chest, his arm wrapped around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
“Stay,” I whisper.
“Where else would I go?”
We fall asleep like that, tangled together, skin against skin, while the storm rages outside.
And in the morning, I wake up to find him still there, one arm locked around me like he’d fight the daylight to keep me where I am.