25. Lynn #2
“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead to mine. “You feel - I can’t-”
“Move.”
He does.
The first thrust is slow, careful, him still trying to maintain some control. But then I wrap my legs around his waist, dig my heels into his back, and pull.
His control shatters.
His rhythm is relentless, deep strokes that hit every perfect spot inside me, and the sounds coming from both of us are obscene.
“Louder,” he growls against my ear. “I want them to hear. I want the whole compound to know who you belong to.”
“Milo-”
“Say my name again. Just like that.”
“Milo - Milo, please-”
“Please what?” He drives into me hard enough to steal the word. “Please stop? Please more?”
“More. Please, more.”
He gives me more.
The first orgasm slams into me with no warning at all. I scream, actually scream, no muffling, no restraint, and his hips stutter as he watches me fall apart.
“Beautiful,” he breathes. “So beautiful. Again.”
“I can’t-”
“You can.” His hand slides between us, finding my clit. “You will.”
He’s right.
The second orgasm builds faster, sharper, driven by his rhythm and the wrecked, worshipping stream of his voice against my ear.
“Perfect,” he grits out. “You’re perfect. You’re everything. And I’m going to spend all night proving it.”
And then he’s coming too, groaning my name like a prayer, the knot swelling to lock us together, his whole body shaking with the force of it.
We lie there, tangled together, breathing hard.
“That was…” I start.
“Not finished.”
“What?”
He pulls back just enough to look at me once the knot eases. His eyes are still glowing. His body is already hardening again against me.
“I told you. The rut. It doesn’t stop after one round.”
“Oh.” I blink at him. “How many rounds are we talking?”
His smile is wolfish. “As many as you can handle.”
“That sounds like another challenge.”
“It’s definitely a challenge.”
I pull him down for another kiss. “Challenge accepted.”
He doesn’t wait long. The knot has barely eased before he’s moving again, rolling me over and hauling my hips up until I’m on my knees, chest pressed to the ruined sheets, and the new angle punches a sound out of me I didn’t know I could make.
“This is the part of the rut I couldn’t tell you about in that lecture hall,” he says, dragging his palms down my spine, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. “How many times it needs you. How it doesn’t quiet down until it’s had you every way it can think of.”
“And how many ways is that?”
He pushes back into me in one long stroke, and I stop caring about the answer.
It’s rougher this time, less careful, the last of his restraint gone somewhere between rounds.
One hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back; the other slides around to work my clit in tight, relentless circles while he drives into me, and the two sensations together are almost too much, that stretched, overfull, on-the-edge feeling that lives only with him.
“You feel that?” he growls, and I do, the knot starting to swell again, catching at my entrance with every thrust. “Not yet. Not until you come for me first. I want to feel it.”
“Milo-”
“Come on, darling. Give it to me.”
I break apart with my face in the sheets and his name in my mouth, and he follows me over the edge a heartbeat later, burying himself deep, the knot locking us together a second time while he shudders through it, pressing kisses to the back of my neck, my shoulder, the mark he left there earlier that’s already gone tender.
“Again?” I mumble, boneless, certain there’s no possible way.
His breath is a laugh against my skin. “Give me five minutes.”
It doesn’t take five minutes.
Dawn light filters through the windows.
The bed is destroyed.
I’m not entirely sure beds can be destroyed, but this one has managed it. The sheets are tangled beyond recognition. Two pillows have lost their stuffing. The frame has shifted at least six inches across the floor.
And Milo, the lycan king, the most powerful lycan I’ve ever met, is passed out beside me, face-down in the remaining pillow, looking thoroughly wrecked.
I feel smug.
Incredibly, overwhelmingly smug.
My body aches in ways I didn’t know were possible. I’ve lost count of how many times we, well. Let’s just say “lycan stamina” is no longer an abstract concept.
Mr. Darcy’s cage is on the far side of the room, facing the wall. We repositioned it somewhere around round four, when Milo’s groaned “I can’t concentrate with the hamster watching” made me laugh so hard I nearly fell off the bed.
The hamster, who witnessed nothing (probably), is currently accepting breakfast from Milo’s extended hand.
My boyfriend, my ridiculous, insatiable, apparently-indestructible boyfriend, woke up ten minutes ago, kissed me thoroughly, and then immediately went to check on the hamster.
“He survived the night,” Milo reports, his voice rough with exhaustion and satisfaction.
“We all survived the night. Barely.”
“You seemed to be having a good time.”
“Round seven says otherwise.”
He cracks one eye open, entirely unrepentant, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“You asked for round seven.”
“You dared me.”
“I expressed confidence in your abilities. That’s different.”
I throw a pillow at him.
He catches it without looking, which is both infuriating and attractive. Then he turns back to the hamster, offering another pellet.
Mr. Darcy takes it.
Sniffs it.
Takes one tiny bite.
And dramatically falls over in his cage.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, scrambling out of the ruined bed. “Mr. Darcy!”
I rush to the cage, my heart pounding. The hamster is lying on his back, tiny paws in the air, completely motionless.
“Is he-” Milo sounds horrified. “Did I-”
Mr. Darcy cracks one eye open.
Looks directly at Milo.
And closes it again.
“He’s faking,” I realize.
“He’s what?”
“He’s faking! He does this when he’s offended.” I tap the cage. “Mr. Darcy. I know you’re not dead.”
The hamster’s whiskers twitch.
“Get up. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Another twitch.
“I’ll give you extra yogurt drops.”
Mr. Darcy opens his eyes, rights himself, and waddles to his food bowl like nothing happened.
Milo stares. “Did your hamster just… die of principle?”
“He’s dramatic. He gets it from me.”
“He held eye contact while he did it.”
“He was making a statement.”
“What statement?”
“Probably ‘keep it down, I’m trying to sleep.’” I lean against him, exhausted and happy and thoroughly satisfied. “Or maybe ‘I can’t believe you made me face the wall for six hours.’”
Milo wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. “I still can’t believe you came here. That you walked through hostile territory, alone, at night-”
“You needed me.”
“You could have been killed.”
“Worth it.” I tip my head back to look at him. “Also, I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.”
“The groveling was excellent, though.”
“I’ll grovel more if needed.”
“It might be needed.” I press a kiss to his jaw. “But first - sleep. Real sleep. And then you can explain everything else you’ve been keeping from me.”
He goes still.
“Milo?”
“There’s more,” he says quietly. “Things I need to tell you. Things about us, about what you are to me, about-”
“After sleep.”
“Lynn-”
“After. Sleep.” I yawn into his shoulder. “Whatever it is can wait until I’ve recovered from your supernatural stamina.”
He’s silent a beat.
Then: “Okay. After sleep.”
He carries me back to the ruined bed, literally carries me, because apparently that’s something we’re doing now, and settles us both into the mess of sheets and pillows.
Mr. Darcy squeaks from his cage, apparently recovered from his dramatic death.
“Shut up,” I tell him. “I’m sleeping.”
Another squeak.
“No, I don’t care about your opinions.”
A third squeak.
“Fine. You can judge. See if I care.”
Milo’s chest rumbles with quiet laughter. “I think he forgives me.”
“He tolerates you at best.”
“I’ll take it.”
He pulls me closer, and I let myself drift, exhausted, satisfied, still a little angry, but mostly just…
Happy.
I’m happy.
And whatever Milo still needs to tell me, whatever challenges are coming, whatever the council is planning-
We’ll face it together.
After sleep.