“As you wish, mate of mine,” he accedes, mirth gradually spilling into his irises at her antics while his chin jerks toward the thick oaken and glass door down one of the halls that is tucked away in the very back of the house that led to the backyard. Said backyard was really the open expanse of the forest that sat on either side of the house, a lake that was nestled behind it, and beyond that, the rough and rocky mountains. Of course, he’d made sure to build the house several yards from the shore of the lake so that his mate could have some space for her own leisure activities–sparring being one of them.
He’d never forget the first time he had trained her in the ways of hand-to-hand combat outside of using her own claws.
So timid and hesitant. So quiet and restrained. So opposite of the spitfire of a female he had watched break free from her cocoon.
She raises her own chin up in answer, confidently making her way through each room and hall while he follows behind her, admiring the sway of her hips and sniffing the pungence of her vexation in the thickness of her scent. When the firelight and wood of the hallways give way to the cool air and earth and the door closes behind them, she turns and he makes no effort to hide where he’d been looking, those eyes of his languidly scaling up her body until they land on hers.
“Do you plan on fighting me in that dress of yours, my sweet? Or will you try to distract me and do something about that?” He inquires with a hint of amusement treading each word. “Your opponent will always be easier to take down with proper attire. Then again,” he takes a step toward her, fingers undoing the buttons along the front of his shirt one by one, “perhaps this may be an opportunity for you to train under more…complicated circumstances.”
He doesn’t fail to observe the way her attention shifts downward at the action for only a second as more of his chest is revealed to her, and when the last of the buttons is undone, he rolls his shoulders only to make the garment fall to the ground at his feet, completely abandoned as he continues toward her until he stands only a foot or so away.
"I think you will just have to find out," she bravely answers.
He smirks at her bravado that she wears as easily as any gown or jewel.
“Ready yourself, then, omega, because I will not go easy on you.” He raises both hands–each balled in a fist, and waits for her to assume the fighting stance he’d taught her. “The moment your hands move from your sides, it’s on. You will use no weapons–and that includes your claws. The winner will get to choose the prize or reward they desire from the loser. Nod if you agree to these terms.”
She does, and when her hands do leave her sides, her fingers curled inward so she’s balling them akin to him, even the wind quiets as it listens to the sound of skin striking skin, his arms easily lowering to meet and parry each of her hits as they move back and forth, there and back, around and around in a dance of practiced familiarity that held no lethality–only fierce competitiveness.
He knows her every move, and of course he does! He was the one that trained her, after all. Just as promised, he doesn't go easy on her.
He's known her long enough to know that letting her win would bruise her pride, and if anything, only push her to grow angrier.
Her movements are controlled, graceful, and calculated, her posture perfect, trained by none other than the best in the pack.
She's gotten better, clearly, for she lands a few clean hits, one against the shoulder, another against his chest, the smirk on his face widening for he's enjoying this. Seeing her grow, and improve- it makes his heart sing.
"Is that all you've got, hm?" she quips once he crouches just a little bit when she lands a jab to the side of his rib, clearly hitting a spot.
"I thought you said you didn't want me to go easy, omega?" The smirk on her face disappears, and he adjusts his stance, not so casual anymore. "What happened? Change your mind?"
Oh, that does it. The growl that leaves her lips is loud as she steps in without hesitation, twisting at the hips and snapping a kick toward his side with enough force that she commits her entire weight to the strike.
He's quicker to block it, catching her kick on his forearm before knocking it aside. "I taught you well, omega." She comes at him again without hesitation, and this time his hand darts out, catching her ankle midair.
A small yelp slips from her as he yanks her just enough to steal her balance. She hits the grass with a dull thud, and he follows her down in one fluid motion, pinning her beneath him before she can recover. "But you've still got a lot to learn."
But she's never been one to give up. Her hand shoots up, hooking behind his neck only so she can yank him forward, using the shift in his weight against him, his balance breaking. She twists her hips, grass tickling her back as she rolls them over before he hits the ground instead.
She straddles his waist, palms planted against his chest to keep him there when he tries to move. "You were saying?" she grins, eyes narrowing down on him yet again, because he clearly cannot seem to stop being so cocky.
His eyes dart away from her gaze just so he can shamelessly feast his eyes on the sight of her heaving chest before trailing down to trace the curves of her waist and hips, the thin material of her dress not helping her case. "You-" her hand goes to tilt his chin up with a firm grip. "-are here to make it up to me, and you don't get to look until I say you can."
He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Oh? State your demands then, pretty girl. You did win fair and square."
"I will!" She says, grinding her hips down into his just to see him hiss, his hooded eyes twinkling with a spark of mirth. "First, I want you to apologise for working all day despite having your sweet mate around for you to dote on."
“Is that all you want from me?” He bucks his hips into her own when she rolls them over him again, meeting her movement as wonderful friction spreads across her sex where his clothed member–hard and tenting his pants–is rubbed against her. “Only an apology while you rub yourself against me and make yourself feel good?”
She’s the one hissing now, his eyes narrowing impishly when her fingers tighten around his jaw and she wrenches his it up so she can expose the long column of his neck for herself. He lets her, the whole of his body untensed and still beneath her besides the rocking of his hips against hers.
It is a silent sort of submission, of willingness to relinquish himself to her, and it makes heat flare between her legs all the way through to her core where boldness surges through her veins.
She squeezes him between her thighs, and it’s not anything that could stop him under normal conditions with all his muscle and brawn that he could easily overpower her with, but he understands it for what it is: her need for his full and undivided attention while she evidenced the consequences of his neglect of her.
It’s why the first of her demands is met with no resistance and he swallows, her silvery orbs descending from his to track the bob of his Adam’s apple as he concedes, “I am sorry, my love, for leaving you alone for so long today. I lost track of the time with how many reports, missives, and requests that the elders have been breathing down my neck to handle.”
The apology is addled with earnestness, the truth of it reflected in the steadfast grip his focus has on her, pulling her in with those brightly shining miniature suns of irises that make her coldness want to crack.
She grits her teeth, a sound akin to a growl grating through her throat when she plants her other hand firmly on his chest so she can seize that bump of cartilage she’d been staring at between her lips. He grunts in surprise, unprepared for the unfamiliar force she uses to trap him there in a ministration that yields no pain, but obvious intent to keep him pinned beneath her.
His fingers twitch by his sides, itching to touch her, and she notices it, her teeth coming down harder around him just enough to make oxygen strain minutely in its attempts to welcome itself into his lungs.
“I come first, do I not? How can you vow to me that I am your everything when you gave me nothing for hours while my mind was full only of you?” She emphasizes the question with a harsh drag of her hips over his now painfully aching member, her dress bunching around her waist with each continual pass over him. “I waited and waited for you, and you left me by myself.”
She gnars the last word out, closing her teeth around him with just a little more pressure–just enough to make his eyes glaze over and breathing a little ragged in the effort to take in more air–before she releases him to pierce the flesh just under the pulsing, bulging gland along the side of his throat where his scent most thrives.
“H-hah,” he groans when she penetrates him, her fangs slicing through his supple flesh as if it were nothing but paper while she lifts herself off of him just so she can wrench her annoying skirts away from her sex. She wastes no time sitting back down and continues grinding over his deliciously thick and pulsating member between the slit of her pussy.
“I am sorry,” he repeats, his fingernails making crescents into the meat of his palms as he remains still beneath her. “I failed you, my love. That was a poor display of my promise to you, you’re right. But it’s still, fuck-” she lets go of his chin, her fingers tangling in his hair and giving it a yank to the side so she can access more of his throat, her perfect lips enveloping him in their capture as she summons his lifeblood through them. Each time she gulps him down, it is as if his blood renews her energy, her hips more vigorous with each course they make over his now weeping member.
When he speaks again, it is through the dressing of a moan, the hand she’d had by his head leaving it to wander down his bare chest, the pads of her soft digits claiming, not caressing, in their journey across his shoulders, over and around his pectorals, and through and around each ridge and rise of his abdominals. Her touch sends heat straight to his cock, his breathing becoming more labored as she swills more of his iron flavored essence into herself.
“I have never lied to you, my everything.” He pants as she circles her hips over him, her lips catching on his clothed cock before she makes a figure-eight motion with them that has his eyes rolling back while he hoarsely says, “Tell me I can make this right, my love.” His hips lurch upward when she lays her front over him, her perfect breasts straining against the fabric while the heavenly weight of them falls upon him at the same time that her fingers depress themselves over the outline of his tip that her core doesn’t reach when she draws her hips over him again and again. In tandem with her hips, her tongue flicks at the two new punctures she’s made on his neck as she moans at the iron-rich taste of him.
Reason departs him more with each swallow of him down her throat, and soon, he’s a moaning mess beneath her as she uses him for her pleasure. It’s addictive to watch her, to feel her like this; to witness the picture of his passion and beauty dressed in silk succumb to the desire that he painted on her. It makes the rational part of him woozy with craving and drunk on something utterly, pathetically depraved.
It’s why words slip, ones that are pulled even from under his wolf’s nose in the seductive, intoxicating undulations of her hips and tongue over him while her flowery, saccharine scent buries itself in every orifice of his mind until there is nothing but her.
“Let me be good for you, my love. Please,” he begs–a foreign oddity that he reserves for no one beyond his mate–” Please let me give it to you. I know you want it…" he breathes in nice and deep, her hips moving faster now atop of him, "Mmm...fuck...you smell so delicious. Do I taste good, too, my goddess?"
