Chapter 16 Kess #2
"Need you inside me," I gasp against his lips. "Need your cock. Now."
"I know." He positions himself at my entrance, the thick head nudging through slick. Pauses there, meeting my eyes. "This is different. What we're doing. It's not just the heat."
"I know."
"I need you to know that I—" He stops, struggling with words. "This matters to me. You matter to me."
"You matter to me too." The admission costs something, but it's worth it for the way his expression softens, the way hope flickers in his dark eyes. "Now stop talking and fuck me."
He slides into me in one long, slow stroke.
The stretch is exquisite—his cock forcing me open inch by inch, thick and hot and hard as iron, filling the emptiness my heat has been screaming about for hours.
I feel every ridge and vein dragging against my swollen inner walls, feel the blunt head pushing deeper until he's seated fully, his hips flush against mine, his cock so deep I swear I can feel it behind my navel.
His face above me is wrecked—eyes black as pitch, no gold remaining, pupils blown so wide they've swallowed everything.
His jaw is clenched tight, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble, and sweat beads at his temples from the effort of holding still.
The smell of him surrounds me—smoke and stone and the dark musk of arousal, cedar and something wild underneath that makes my hindbrain purr with recognition. Alpha. Mine.
"Okay?" he asks, voice strained.
"More than okay." I wrap my legs around him, heels digging into his ass, pulling him impossibly deeper. "Move."
He does.
Long, slow thrusts that drag his cock through my clenching cunt, the friction sending waves of heat radiating outward from my core.
His shoulders bunch and flex above me with each stroke, the muscles in his arms standing out in sharp relief where he braces himself, caging me in warmth and strength.
I run my hands up those arms, feeling the power coiled beneath his skin, the iron control it takes for him to move this slowly when I can feel through the bond how badly he wants to rut into me like an animal.
Nothing like the brutal pace of our previous encounters—this is deliberate, measured, each stroke designed to make me feel every inch of him.
He pulls back until just the head remains inside me, stretching my entrance, then slides home again in one fluid motion that punches the breath from my lungs.
"You're so wet." His voice is wrecked, reverent. "So hot inside. Like you're trying to melt me."
"I might be." I dig my nails into his shoulders, leaving crescents in his skin. "Don't stop."
He doesn't stop.
His forehead drops to rest against mine, our breath mingling, eyes locked as he fucks me with devastating patience.
This close I can see the ring of gold trying to break through the black of his pupils, can see every expression flicker across his face—concentration, pleasure, something softer that makes my chest ache.
His scent is stronger here, filling my lungs with every breath, and I want to drown in it.
Each thrust sends his cock dragging over that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
Each withdrawal leaves me clenching around nothing, desperate and empty, craving the next stroke.
The weight of him above me is grounding, real—those wide shoulders blocking out the world, those powerful arms holding him steady, that broad chest brushing against my breasts with every movement.
"I think about this constantly," he says, hips rolling in a rhythm that's driving me slowly insane. "The way you feel wrapped around my cock. The sounds you make. The way you look right now—" He groans as I clench around him. "Flushed and desperate and so fucking beautiful."
"Rhystan—" His name comes out half-moan, half-plea.
"I know." He speeds up slightly, his cock hitting deeper, harder. "I know what you need."
His hand slides between our bodies, fingers finding my clit—swollen and throbbing, so sensitive that the first brush makes me jerk against him. He circles it slowly, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, building the pleasure in overlapping waves that climb higher with every stroke.
"That's it." His lips brush my ear, breath hot against my skin. "Let me feel you come on my cock."
The orgasm crests and breaks over me like a wave—not the violent crash of heat-driven release, but something deeper, sweeter, rolling through my body in long slow pulses.
My cunt clenches around his cock in rhythmic squeezes, milking him, and I hear him groan against my temple as my pleasure triggers something in him too.
"Fuck—Kess—" His rhythm falters, hips stuttering. "The knot—I can't hold it—"
"Don't hold it." I pull him deeper with my legs, refusing to let him retreat. "Give it to me. Fill me up."
He drives forward and the knot forces its way inside, stretching my entrance wide around the thick bulge at the base of his cock.
The pressure is enormous—I'm being pried open, stuffed full, impaled on more cock than should fit.
The knot swells even larger now that it's seated, locking us together, grinding against something deep that makes my whole body shake.
Then he's coming.
I feel the first hot pulse of his cum flooding my depths, feel his cock jerk inside me as he empties himself in long spurts.
His claws prick my hips—not breaking skin, just holding on, anchoring himself to me while the release tears through him.
Another pulse, another rush of heat, and another, until I can feel the pressure building inside me, nowhere for it to go with the knot sealing everything in.
"So much," I gasp, feeling my belly tighten with the sheer volume. "You're giving me so much—"
"Take it." His voice is shattered, desperate. "Take all of it. Want to fill you until you can't hold any more—"
He keeps coming, keeps pumping me full, his cock twitching with each new spurt while I clench around his knot and milk him for everything he has. By the time he finally stills, I feel stretched to bursting, stuffed with cum, so full that every tiny shift of his hips makes me moan.
Then stillness.
Both of us breathing hard. Both of us trembling. His weight settles over me, heavy and warm, and I find I don't mind it. Don't feel trapped. Just held.
He shifts carefully, gathering me against his chest without pulling on the knot, and rolls us onto our sides so we're facing each other.
His arms wrap around me—one beneath my head like a pillow, the other draped over my waist, his palm spread warm and possessive across my lower back.
I'm tucked against him, surrounded by the furnace heat of his body, his heartbeat thundering against my cheek.
Inside me, the knot pulses with each beat of his heart, keeping us locked together. Every small movement shifts his cock, sends little aftershocks of pleasure rippling through my oversensitive flesh. He's still so deep, still filling me so completely, and every breath I take I feel him.
"Stay," I whisper against his chest. "When the knot goes down. Stay with me."
"As long as you want me." He presses a kiss to the top of my head, his lips warm against my hair. "I'm not going anywhere."
His hand strokes up and down my spine in slow, soothing passes. I let my eyes drift closed, let myself exist in this moment—wrapped in his arms, full of his cock and his cum, safer than I've felt in years.
The bond hums between us—quieter than it should be, somehow thinner, but still there. Still connecting us.
The heat builds and breaks three more times before dawn.
The second wave hits an hour after the knot finally softens and slips free. I'm barely conscious, drifting in the warm aftermath, when the fever surges back through my blood and I'm gasping, reaching for him, desperate all over again.
He takes me from behind this time—positions me on my hands and knees and mounts me like the beast he is, his chest pressed hot against my back, his teeth grazing the nape of my neck.
The angle is different, deeper somehow, his cock hitting places inside me that make me scream into the pillow.
His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me steady while he drives into me with a rhythm that shakes the bed frame.
"You feel so good like this," he groans against my shoulder. "Taking my cock so well. Made for me."
I come twice before he knots me again, his teeth sinking into my shoulder as he floods me with another rush of heat.
The third time I ride him.
He lies back against the pillows, golden eyes—more gold than black now, the rut beginning to ease—watching me with something like wonder as I sink down onto his cock.
My thighs burn with the effort of lifting and dropping, of controlling the pace, but I don't care.
I want to see his face like this, want to watch his expression fracture as I work myself on him.
His hands settle on my hips, not guiding, just holding. His thumbs trace circles on my hip bones as I move, and his eyes never leave my face.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "You're so fucking beautiful."
I plant my hands on his chest and lean forward, changing the angle, grinding my clit against him with every roll of my hips. His head tips back against the pillow, throat exposed, and I lean down to bite—not hard, just enough to feel his whole body jerk beneath me.
"Kess—" My name is a prayer on his lips.
I ride him until we both shatter.
The fourth wave is the gentlest, the heat finally burning down to embers.
He spoons behind me in the gray pre-dawn light, one arm under my head, the other wrapped around my waist, and slides into me slow and easy.
No urgency now—just a lazy rhythm, his cock moving in and out of my slick cunt while he kisses my neck, my shoulder, the sensitive spot behind my ear.
"I could do this forever," he whispers against my skin. "Stay inside you forever. Never stop."
His hand slides down to cup me where we're joined, fingers finding my clit, working me in slow circles while his cock drags against my inner walls.
I come quietly this time, shivering in his arms, and he follows soon after—the knot smaller now, easier to take, still locking us together but without the overwhelming stretch.
We fall asleep like that, still joined, his breath warm against my hair.
By the time gray light filters through my window, we're both exhausted, wrung out, lying in sheets soaked with sweat and slick and cum. I should be disgusted. Should want to bathe, to clean up, to restore some dignity to the situation.
Instead I curl closer to him, my head on his chest, listening to the steady drum of his heart. I trace the scars on his ribs, the claiming marks on his throat. Memorize the feel of his skin beneath my fingertips, the rhythm of his breathing, the way his arm tightens around me when I shift.
I'll remember this. All of it.
The way he looked at me when he first pushed inside—like I was something precious, something worth being careful with.
The gold breaking through the black of his eyes as the rut eased and the man returned.
The sounds he made when he came, desperate and broken and beautiful.
The weight of him above me, the heat of him behind me, the strength in his arms as he held me close.
Every touch. Every kiss. Every whispered word in the darkness.
I'll remember.
"It's passing," I murmur against his chest. "The heat. It's almost gone."
"Already?" He sounds surprised. "It's only been—"
"I know." I trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling the raised edges of scars beneath my fingertips. "They're changing. Coming faster, burning shorter. The contamination is doing something to them."
His hand stills where it's been stroking my hair. "Are you worried?"
"I don't know." I consider the question honestly. "I should be. Everything about my body is changing, and I don't know what I'm becoming. But I can't make myself feel afraid of it."
"Maybe that's the warrior omega in you." His voice is soft. "Maybe your blood knows this is what it was always meant for."
Maybe.
Or maybe my body knows something I don't. Maybe these flash heats—coming faster, burning hotter, demanding him inside me again and again—are trying to do what heats are designed to do. Tie me to him. Bind us together in a way that can't be undone.
Make something permanent.
I don't say it aloud. Don't want to see his reaction, don't want to know if the thought terrifies him the way it should terrify me.
Because it doesn't. Not completely.
And I don't know what that means.
The bond flickers in my chest—that strange muffled quality still present, like hearing music through a wall. I should ask him about it. Should mention that it feels different lately, quieter, less vivid.
But his breathing has gone slow and even, sleep finally claiming him after a night of exertion. I don't have the heart to wake him for questions I'm not sure I want answered.
Instead I close my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under.
We can figure out the rest later.
For now, this is enough.