Bottomless Pit of Thirst

Your legs twitch in Valko’s grip, as his tongue flicks against your clit. It was sensitive from your previous orgasms, and the repeated lapping at it from your boyfriend has tears rolling down your cheeks at the overstimulation. He had been holding you down for hours, your thighs held tightly in his grip, as he worked you over the edge repeatedly. The original reason this was initiated is long forgotten once he lost himself in the taste of you.

“Mmh, Valko,” Your voice is breathy and you struggle to make a sentence through your moans, “’M close.” His soft ears flick against your skin at your words, the movement sending shivers down your spine and you buck into his face. He switches from licking your clit to sucking on it, the sharp pleasure that floods you making your back arch, a hoarse cry falling from your lips.

“Need you to cum for me again, pup,” His voice is deep as he speaks against you, and the vibrations only add to the coil building inside you.

Your eyes roll as your pleasure builds, and you can make out the blurry shape of Valko’s tail wagging behind him, as he grinds himself into your mattress. You thread your hands into his hair scratching lightly behind his ears and he whines into you, scraping his teeth over your clit in a motion that has you sobbing out his name.

“Valko, shit,” you tug at his hair trying to pull his head away from you. You’re too worn out to have any impact, and he responds by pressing his head further into you alongside a harsh slap on your thigh. You try again, squeezing his hair tighter in your grip, “Valko, the jar,” your attempt at being stern fails, but it’s still enough to catch his attention.

Valko pulls off of you with a groan, a hand leaving your thigh to collect the jar on the bed beside you. There’s a substantial amount of liquid in there already, but he was adamant it wasn’t enough, keeping you pinned to your bed and working you over the edge again and again, all to collect your juices.

“One more time, okay pup?” The hand still gripping your thigh softens slightly, and his thumb rubs gently over your skin, soothing you. “Then I’ll give you my knot, yeah? Keep you nice and full.”

You nod up at him, a whine of “please,” slips out of you and you reach your hand out towards him trying to urge him back to you. He chuckles at your desperation but leans down towards you allowing you to pull his head back between your legs. Your hips buck up into his face, as he places a soft kiss against your clit, blowing on it before flicking his tongue against it.

“Please, Valko,” desperation laces your voice as you cry out for him, “Don’t tease.” Your hands are gripping his shoulders as you try to pull him into you, your nails digging into him.

He obliges. Pressing his mouth firmly against you and sucking, making you cry out. His tongue rubs circles into your clit then travels down, pressing the tip into your hole. You buck against him again and he growls, his hand on your thigh pressing you down harsher than before, his fingers squeezing hard enough to bruise. He pushes his tongue further into you, his nose catching against your clit and you grab his hair again trying to grind his face into you.

“That’s right pup, use my face,” his words are muffled as he whines into you, the vibrations shooting pleasure straight up your spine. You cry out, your hole clenching around his tongue as he plunges it deeper into you. You’re getting close and he can tell by the way your legs twitch against his hold, breathy moans spilling from your lips.

“Fuck-,” your chest heaves as you try slurring out a clear sentence, “Please.” Your breathing is ragged as he continues to thrust his tongue into you, your grinding pressing his nose harder against your clit. “‘M gonna cum.”

“Cum for me, puppy.” Your eyes roll back at his command, your hole spasming around him as you orgasm. 

Valko is quick to pull his face from you, his hand leaving your thigh to rub circles into your clit, as clear liquid spurts out of you. He moves the jar to collect your squirt and it fills up gradually. You whine at him, tears filling your eyes from the overstimulation that blooms under your skin. “Too much, Valko, I can’t.”

He doesn’t stop his ministrations, the hand on your abdomen pressing you deeper into the mattress to stop you moving. “Almost there, okay? I’ve got you, pup.” 

His finger slows down on your clit as the last of your orgasm rushes through you, the spray of squirt reduced to a dribble. “Did so well for me, yeah? Such a good pup.”He lifts himself off you, leaving the bed completely to replace the lid on the jar and leave it on your cabinet. 

Your legs are still shaking when he comes back to you, propping himself over you with his hands on either side of your head. “You feeling okay?” His voice is soft and laced with concern after spotting the tear tracks on your face. He leans his face into your neck, placing soft kisses against it whilst inhaling your scent, his ears rubbing against your skin. 

“I’m good, so good baby.” You reach a hand into his hair, scratching his scalp around the base of his ears where you know he loves it the most. He whines into you, his tail wagging behind him, the soft fur brushing against your hip. “Kiss?” The moment the request leaves your lips, his are on yours, the taste of you coating them and you moan against his mouth. He takes the opportunity to push his tongue into you, licking into your mouth. You adjust your hand in his hair so you can pull at it, your free hand moving to his bicep and digging your nails into the skin. He groans at the duel sensation, pulling free of your lips.

“I need you, puppy, please,” his voice is rough as he begs you, “Need to knot you, yeah? Stuff you nice and full.” You can feel yourself heating up at his words, and despite how spent you are his words relight your desire. You buck your hips up at him as you nod, but he lifts himself away from you, “Words, pup, tell me what you want.”

“Please, Valko,” you whine, raising your hips towards him again, “Can’t you see how much I want it?” His eyes are glued to your hole, a growl escaping him as he watches it clench around nothing, your slick leaking out onto the bed below you. 

He steps back off the bed, his tail wagging behind him as he reaches down to remove his underwear. Your eyes track his movements, focusing in on the damp patch in his boxers that his bulge strains against. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and pulls them down, letting his cock spring free. The tip is pink and leaking, and with the sheen that coats it in the light you can tell he’s cum at least once already. 

He moves to hover over you once again, holding his cock in his hand to swipe it through your folds, making you buck against him. He’s too desperate to tease you and he pushes into you slowly, feeling you stretch around him. You gasp out at the intrusion, the thickness of him punching the air out of you as you feel him enter you. “Fuck you’re so tight for me,” his hips meet yours as he bottoms out inside you, a hand settling on your hip, “Feel so good.” His thighs twitch with the effort it took not to immediately start thrusting, his eyes focused on your face and waiting for your permission to move.

Once you’d adjusted to him, you nodded and ground your hips into his, feeling his cock press against your walls. His head fell forward, a high pitched whine leaving him as he fought not to immediately cum. He took a deep breath before slowly pulling himself out of you until just the tip breached your entrance. 

His hips snapped forward into you, the force causing you to choke out a moan as he set a hard and fast pace. Plunging into you repeatedly with harsh thrusts that had you bouncing against the bed. His hands grab your thighs, pushing them into your chest, putting you in a mating press  allowing him to reach deeper inside you. He pressed his head into your neck, licking and sucking at the skin there and making sure to leave marks, your legs locking together behind his head to hold him against you. “You’re so fucking good to me, pup,” he groans against your skin, “Feel so perfect wrapped around me like this, like you were made for me.”

You cry out as he pounds into you, your eyes rolling back into your head and back arching off the mattress at his thrusts. “Fuck-,” moans fall from you mouth, echoing his groans against your skin. You clench around him when he hits that spot inside you that has you seeing stars, and he whimpers. It’s a breathy sound that has you clenching harder around his cock trying to rip it out of him again.

“Fuck, pup,” his voice is shaky and breathless, his knot beginning to swell at the base of his cock, and knocking against your entrance with every thrust. “‘M not gonna last long if you keep clenching like that.” One of his hands leaves your thigh and presses against the bulge forming in your stomach, his thumb reaching down to rub fast circles into your clit.

“Ah! Valko~” Your legs spasm around his head, toes curling as another orgasm builds. 

“Can feel me so deep, hm pup?” He presses harder against your stomach, the pressure making your eyes roll back and slurred words leave your lips, the only coherent ones being his name. You clench around him again and force another whimper from him. “Fuck, pup,” his thrusts are getting sloppy as his orgasm nears but he still pounds into your gspot with every thrust. “Gonna breed you, yeah? Stuff you nice and full with my pups.” His bites on your neck get rougher, dark marks spreading across your skin, “You’re so good to me, fuck-” his knot presses into you more insistently. “Just relax for me, pup. Let me knot you, let me breed you.” His words become mumbles as his knot pushes into you, locking you both together. 

You both cum crying out the other’s name, your walls clenching around his knot and milking him. Your legs shake around his head, and he reaches up to gently ease them down so they wrap around his waist. “Did so well for me pup,” he’s breathless as he speaks and you can feel him filling you up, the sheer amount of cum making your stomach swell slightly to accommodate it. Valko collapses forward on top of you, the additional weight making you groan out and he’s quick to push himself up onto his forearms with a, “Shit, ‘m sorry.” His eyes are concerned as they assess you, making sure you aren’t in any pain, “‘M gonna move us okay? So we’re more comfortable.” 

You nod up at him, not trusting your voice whilst you still recover and he carefully slides his arms under your back. He rolls over slowly, making sure not to jostle his knot as it sits inside you, and settles against the headboard so you’re straddling him. Your eyelids are already flickering shut as you settle against his chest, the warmth that radiates from him lulling you into your dreams. 

“You got to drink some water before drifting off, pup,” Valko’s soft voice draws you back to consciousness, one hand holding up a glass of water while the other helps you sit up. You gulp it down, a few droplets falling from the sides of your mouth but you’re too tired to care. Once the glass is empty you immediately lay back against his chest, sighing as his hand strokes through your hair, “In the morning we can make some chocolate syrup, yeah?” you simply hum in response too tired to form anything further. “We can make some apple syrup too for our Caleb,” Valko leans down and places a soft kiss on the top of your head, his free hand coming to wrap around your waist as you finally fall asleep, “Goodnight, pup.”

“n-no. it looks good.” the throb building in your core undermines your brain’s processing power. “you look good. there’s nothing to change.”

humming, he continues his lazy strokes, his bulbous tip reddening by the second. “you like it, then? i’m so glad. it’s all for you, you know. no one else.”

your mouth is so dry, it feels like swallowing sand. 

“what do you think it'll feel like?”

the question makes you freeze, sending a million little glitches sparking through your nerves. “um…good?” 

“‘good’ again, huh? is that all you can say? you know you can be more descriptive than that.” he twists his hand around his shaft and groans. “come on, try again. don’t go dumb on me. when i’m inside you, so deep you can't tell where you end and i begin…what do you think it’ll feel like?”

time stands still. does he really want you to answer? what should you even say? 

though your phone is perched in your lap, he still finds a way to look down at you. his top lip curls in the beginnings of a mean sneer, and his stormy eyes narrow expectantly. 

“big,” you whisper. it’s the first thing that comes to mind. “heavy. like i’ll have nowhere to go as long as you’re there.”

he moans his approval, and forewarnings of his release trail out in thin, translucent streams. “yeah? keep going. what else?”

you go to speak again, but a sudden pang shoots straight through your core, making you gasp. in the background, you hear his quiet chuckle. 

after a moment's recovery, you try again: “hot. really, really hot.” swallowing thickly, you squeeze your thighs together. “so hot inside me, i’ll try to pull back—to cool off—but you won’t let me. you’ll keep me there, and you’ll kiss me, and it’ll just get worse.”

he throws his head back with a breathy moan, colonel cap falling down the back of his pilot’s seat. gradually, his hand comes to a halt, but he hasn't truly finished yet. with the way his length stands proudly on the screen, straining and swollen from all of his teasing, that much is clear. 

as his eyes nail you in place through the camera, you get the foreboding feeling that he's saving his release for your reunion. 

“there was traffic! and i ended up just staying through their whole shift, because—”

“i’m not fallin’ for your little tricks today, so you can cut it out already.” he takes your chin between his thumb and index finger, firmly forcing you to meet his heated gaze. “our house is spotless because of me. my hard work. it’s time for you to return the favor.”

his hand engulfs yours, and the familiar warmth of resonance flows through you.

caleb gives, you take, just like usual. he lets his power becomes yours and smiles at the sight.

this time, his reasoning is far from selfless.

“don’t hurt yourself.”

it’s his command for you to start.

whimpering quietly, you sink down on his thick, hard length, breathing slowly while your body accommodates the stretch. 

by now, your core is more than used to him—his size, his girth, his occasional punishing pace—but now, you hold the reins. mastering the monster bullying the rawest parts of you? it’s almost as big an adjustment as your first time together.  

he watches you brazenly as you start your own rhythm, maneuvering yourself with timid, exploratory drags up and down. when you channel his evol, harnessing gravity to inch yourself up ever so slowly, you can feel his hot, tender skin slipping past your walls, promising never to leave you for very long. and each time that invisible force tugs you right back down? he grows a little bit bigger inside you. 

a sharp hit to your backside disrupts your unsure movements, the loud crack resounding through the otherwise quiet bedroom. “you think you'll get any leverage like that? hold onto me harder. push at my chest if you need to. i can barely feel you.” 

gritting your teeth at his wanton order, you bury your nails deeper into his skin. you tell yourself you don’t care if it hurts—he deserves it—but eye him with caution all the same. “i’m trying, caleb. you know i’m not used to this. i’m already getting tired. i’m not as strong as you.”

he tsks, knocking on your temple twice with his knuckles. “a fact hardly works as flattery.”

“i—”

“you say you’re sooo tired,” he drawls. “how? i’m doing all the work, just like always.” to prove his point, he flicks a hand in the air. your head tilts forward at his command, and he puppeteers you down for a heated kiss.

he pulls back once your air supply starts to wane, only to narrow his eyes as your skin smacks together once again. “i may get tired, letting you use me like this, but don’t think you can stop if i drift off for a sec. we’re in this for long haul. you can stop when…if…i say so.” 

“can you at least help me?” even with his support, your thighs still burn like hell. 

“if you’d helped me this afternoon, i’d be rewarding you right now. you’d be moaning my name even louder than normal.” 

“caleb, please,” you whine. “what else do you want me to do?”

“just keep going,” he says smugly. “i did allll the work earlier. i’m not doing a single thing ‘til you prove you can pull your own weight. right now, i’m just gonna sit back and enjoy my luxury view.” 

grumbling, you swipe at his neck but keep moving, gasping when the slight curve of him brushes just right against that special spot. 

“are you getting close?” he purrs. “good. go faster.”

faster? since his outright refusal to help you, you’ve made enough squelches and smacks to make an erotica author blush. lines of muscle and stores of fat ripple with every slam down on him. how are you supposed to go faster? 

“i can’t! this is as fast as i can— i can’t go any faster, caleb.” 

your cries fill his ears, and he leans in close to murmur in yours. “make me come, and i’ll let you stop. but unless you go faster, i’ll hold everything back. we’ll be here all night. i promise you that.”

you’re babbling now at the weight of his threat, spearing yourself up and down on his length too fast to even sneak words in between. each time you rise and fall in the air, all you can smell, all you can taste, is sex. you and him, him and you. both of you, together.

despite his bravado, his head falls forward on the hardest bounce yet, slumping against your sweat-slick shoulder. he doesn't hesitate to mouth at the damp skin, groaning as his thighs finally start to tremble beneath you.

“good,” he hisses. “so, so good.” an open-mouthed kiss sears your collarbone. “can you feel it? how close i am? you’ll feel all of it soon. don’t stop.”

“not gonna stop,” you slur, shaking your head frantically. “just hurry, please. i can’t hold on, i can’t, i—”

strong arms wrap around your back and yank you downward. fully seated on his spasming cock, you feel the heat first—then the unsteady bursts flowing inside you. 

each thick spurt flooding in, claiming all of you, plays its part in sending you over the edge. before his high loses momentum, your muscles clamp down on him, forcing all of what’s left into your deepest depths. 

gasping to catch your breath, you all but mewl into his keen ears. “there’s so much…so much…we need to wash the sheets before we go to be—”

big, warm hands squeeze the flesh of your thighs, hovering you threateningly above his still-soaked tip. that cruel, cunning smirk you’ve come to dread curves his full lips. “i said you could stop when you made me come,” he murmurs lowly. 

The first time you tried, you were sixteen.

It was the thick of summer, the kind of damp heat that turns the estate into a greenhouse. Your mother's garden party sprawled across the south lawn, and you’d hidden upstairs long enough to change into a sundress that was definitely too short and absolutely on purpose. 

You padded barefoot down the service stairs to the kitchen, where Zayne—the perfect butler, the one who runs the household, the one who never lets anything go wrong—was reviewing the evening's schedule. 

You perched yourself on the counter beside his clipboard, crossed your legs, and let the hem ride up.

“I need help with my zipper,” you said, turning to show him the back of the dress, which was zipped perfectly fine and you both knew it.

Zayne hadn't looked up from the schedule, hadn't so much as blinked. He simply reached over, tugged the zipper up the remaining quarter-inch it didn't need to travel, and said, “Will that be all?”

You stared at the back of his head, face burning, and vowed that one day you'd get him to break.

You tried again on your eighteenth birthday.

Your parents had thrown a party, the kind with floral arrangements and a champagne tower and three hundred people who knew your family's net worth better than they knew your name. You spent the evening smiling until your cheeks ached, accepting congratulations from strangers, and dancing with boys your mother hand selected who were perfectly nice and perfectly boring and perfectly wrong.

By midnight, you escaped to the kitchen—kicked your heels off, discarded your tiara on the counter, and sat on the floor with your back against the island eating leftover cake with your fingers.

Zayne had found you there. He'd taken in the scene—the dress pooling around you, the smudged mascara, the pink frosting on your thumb—and silently retrieved a fork before sitting down beside you.

He was still in his suit, still immaculate as ever, but he'd loosened his tie—and the sight of that one concession to comfort had made something hot pulse through you. You sat together in silence for a while, passing the cake back and forth. Then, because you were eighteen and a little drunk and very tired of pretending, you asked:

“Zayne. Do you think I'm pretty?”

He blinked, keeping his eyes shut for an extra heartbeat—processing the question, the context, the thousand reasons he should deflect.

“You've been drinking.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“The answer doesn't change based on your sobriety.”

“So there is an answer.”

He reached over and wiped a smear of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The gesture was gentle and natural, the kind of thing he'd done a hundred times when you were small. Except you weren't small anymore, and his thumb had lingered a second too long, and you ached to know if he’d still be gentle if he pressed it against your tongue.

“You should drink some water,” he'd said quietly. “And go to bed.”

“Come tuck me in, then.”

You'd meant it as a joke, but the words came out too soft and the look on his face told you that you'd gotten closer to something real than either of you was prepared for.

He didn’t give you a response. Just stood up, filled a glass with cold water, and set it on the floor beside you.

“Happy birthday, princess.”

You'd sat there alone in the kitchen as the door shut behind him, holding the cup with both hands, and hated yourself for pushing. Maybe hated yourself more for not pushing harder. You'd felt his thumb on your mouth for the rest of the night. For weeks after. 

Sometimes, if you closed your eyes, you could still feel it now.

Tonight, you’re twenty, and the house is trying to eat you alive.

You’re home from university for winter break, but the house is empty—your parents are out of the country, occupied by some charity board retreat that requires a week of their attention. The staff has all gone home for the holidays, leaving you alone in a house that was built for thirty. 

Alone except for Zayne.

Zayne stays. He always stays, because someone has to manage the property and someone has to manage you, and your parents have never trusted anyone else with either job.

The estate is settling into its bones, creaking and groaning like it’s alive and reminding you how small you are inside it. The hallways are too long, the ceilings are too high, and every shadow seems to have eyes looking directly at you.

You’re not scared.

You’re an adult. You have self-defense training and a home security system that could protect a small nation.

You're not scared.

The floorboards squeak directly above your bed, and you flinch so hard you nearly fall off the mattress.

Okay. Maybe you’re a little scared.

Your eyes find the bell on your nightstand.

It's small—worn with age, fitted with a wooden handle meant for hands of a much younger you. Your grandmother had gifted it after you'd had a nightmare and screamed the house down and said, Ring this whenever you need someone, darling. Someone will always come.

Someone always meant Zayne.

Your parents never really had the time, or the patience, or the interest in dealing with your whims. But Zayne…Zayne always did. He was paid to maintain order after all, and managing you was just another task—though it never felt like one. 

Not when he answered the call of your bell every time.

You'd rung it the night of the thunderstorm when you were eight, and he'd appeared within minutes with a flashlight and a copy of The Secret Garden and read to you until the storm passed. You'd rung it the night before your first day of secondary school, sick with anxiety, and he'd brought warm milk and sat with you while you listed every possible catastrophe and he assured you, very gently, that none of those things would happen and that if they did, he would personally intervene.

You rang it less and less as you grew older, saving it for the real emergencies—when your first boyfriend broke up with you by text, or the night before your final exams when you couldn't stop shaking. He always came. Never commented on the hour or the reason, just showed up at your door ready to handle whatever you needed handled.

You haven't rung it in over three years.

You pick it up, letting the cool brass warm in your palm. You turn it over once, feeling the weight of it, the history, the lifetime of someone always coming when you called.

You ring it.

The sound is small in the vast quiet of the house, barely louder than the wind outside your window. But you know he hears it. Zayne hears everything.

Two minutes pass before footsteps echo in the hallway, followed by a soft knock at your door.

“Come in,” you call.

He opens the door and stands in the frame, and the sight of him makes your mouth go dry.

After all this time living under the same roof, you've only ever seen him in his suit, his work clothes, or—once, memorably—a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up that had nearly killed you. But this is something else entirely. 

Grey sleep pants hang low on his hips, a white t-shirt stretching across his chest. His hair is tousled over his forehead, glasses sliding just slightly, jaw shadowed with the kind of stubble he'd never allow during working hours.

His eyes find the bell in your hand, and something in them softens.

“The house is making noises,” you explain.

He leans against the doorframe, taking in your oversized t-shirt, your bare legs, the way you’re sitting cross-legged at the center of your mattress on high alert. 

“It's an old house,” he says. “It makes noises.”

“Scary noises.”

“You're not a child anymore.”

“Age and fear are not mutually exclusive.” You return the bell to the nightstand with unnecessary care. “I read that somewhere.”

“You read that nowhere.”

“I might have,” you counter. “You don’t know my reading habits.”

“You're currently halfway through a fantasy romance novel you hide inside a copy of The Economist when I bring your breakfast.” He crosses his arms, which emphasizes the broadness of his chest in a way that should come with a warning. “I know your reading habits.”

“It’s romantasy, Zayne,” you correct drily, though your face heats. “And that's—invasive.”

“It's observational. You leave the dust jacket loose.” He steps into your room, letting the door close behind him. “What do you need?”

You. I need you. I've needed you since I was sixteen and you zipped a dress that didn't need zipping and I need you to come here now and hold me and never leave this room.

“Company,” you say instead. “Just—stay for a while. Please.”

“There's a guest room adjacent to—”

“Zayne.”

“—mine, which I can prepare in—”

“Zayne, come on. You used to read to me when I couldn't sleep.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You were eight.”

“And you were a very good reader. I remember the voices you did for the characters.”

“I did not do voices.”

“You totally did voices. Mrs. Medlock had a Yorkshire accent.”

He tries to fight the corner of his mouth lifting and loses. “That's historically accurate.”

A branch scrapes against the window and you jolt, pulling your knees in tight to your chest, and you watch it happen in slow motion—the moment Zayne registers the current of anxiety beneath your bravado, the delicate weight of his propriety crumbling against the fact that you rang the bell, the bell that means I need you, the bell he's never once ignored.

He crosses to your bookshelf, scans it, and pulls out a slim paperback. 

“Persuasion?” you say, catching a glimpse of the cover.

He takes a seat on the edge of your bed, leaving a tortuously polite foot of distance between his hip and your knee. “It was on the shelf.”

“It’s a romance novel.”

“It's Austen. It's literature.”

“You just gave me a hard time for reading romance novels.”

“I gave you a hard time for hiding them.” He settles his glasses higher on his nose. “And this is a novel about patience. Restraint. Waiting for something even when it seems impossible. I thought you could use the lesson.”

You scoff in mock offense. “Was that a dig at me?”

“It was a recommendation.” He opens the book, then clears his throat. “Now stop talking.”

He reads.

You lie back against your pillow as his voice fills your bedroom like candlelight, settling into the spaces between the house’s creaking. When you were younger, his reading voice was a sedative, designed to pull you under. Now you're aware of every inflection, every pause, every place where his tongue shapes a word in a way that makes your thoughts drift to what else his mouth could be doing if he stopped being so goddamn careful.

After a few minutes, you start to shift. Not dramatically—just adjusting yourself in a way that happens to settle your body closer to his.

“You're not sleeping,” he says without taking his eyes off the page.

“I’m listening.”

“You're fidgeting.”

“I’m cold.”

“You’re not using a blanket.”

“A blanket isn't warm like a person.”

His gaze drags between you and the blanket you never bothered to use, eyes caught somewhere between mild disapproval and reluctant indulgence.

“Come closer,” you continue. “I’m requesting warmth. As a service.”

He lifts a brow. “You're requesting warmth.”

“From my butler. Who is paid to ensure my comfort.”

“I'm paid to manage the household.”

“Managing me is part of the household.”

“A fact I'm reminded of daily.”

Still, he moves closer an inch. Then another, when you give him a look that says it’s not enough. He eventually ends up beside you, back against the headboard, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body but not quite touching.

“Better?” he asks.

You let your head rest on his shoulder, the way you used to when you were small—except you weren't thinking about the way his shoulder felt under your cheek then, or the firmness of the muscle, or the way he smells like clean linen shadowed with something rich and heady and him that you’ve never been close enough to catch before.

“Getting there. Keep reading.”

He obeys, though the words have lost all meaning. All that matters is the vibration of the words from his body into yours, the way the sound fills the aching space behind your ribs with something tender and safe.

You let a few minutes pass, let him settle into the false security of the routine—you leaning on him, him reading, the benign pretense that this is just an act of service. Then you curl closer, tucking your legs up and angling your body until you're pressed along his side with your face against his chest and your hand resting on his abdomen.

His reading stops.

“Comfortable?” he asks without looking down.

“Almost.” You spread your fingers wider against his stomach, savoring the way the muscles there tense beneath your touch. “Your heartbeat is fast.”

“I was reading aloud. That's exertion.”

“Liar.”

“Cardiovascular response to sustained vocalization is well-documented.”

“Seriously?”

“There are several studies. I'll send you the citations in the morning.” He shuts the book and sets it on the nightstand, effectively abandoning the charade. He folds his glasses and places them neatly beside it, pinching the bridge of his nose with a long exhale. “Go to sleep.”

“Hold me first,” you insist, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and guiding it to your waist. “I said I was cold.”

His hand rests at your side, settling on top of your shirt with a minimal contact that technically fulfills the request while giving away not an ounce more.

“Zayne.”

“Mm?”

“If I asked you to hold a box, would you balance it on one finger?”

“If the box asked to be carried with unreasonable specifications, possibly.”

“I’m not a box.”

“No. A box would be far less difficult.”

His arm wraps around you, pulling you against him properly, and the sudden full-body contact is dizzying. He's warm everywhere—the solid plane of his chest against your cheek, his arm heavy around your waist, his thigh pressed along the length of yours. 

“There,” you murmur. “Was that so hard?”

“Yes,” he replies simply. “Now sleep."

“I’m not tired.”

“Then close your eyes and try.”

You shake your head against his shirt. “I can't sleep like this.”

“Like what?"

You shift, turning in his arms until your back presses against his chest. His body seems to adjust instinctively, turning with yours before his mind registers the implication—his arm resettling around your waist, chest flush against your spine, and you feel more than hear the sharp intake of breath he tries to hide when your bodies slot together.

“There.” You hum in approval. “Perfect.”

Zayne’s hand flattens against your stomach the smallest fraction, and the silence between you buzzes like a dare neither of you has the courage to break. The wind whips outside your window, but you don’t hear it, can’t focus on anything other than the way his thumb starts to move in a faint line, back and forth, tracing the hem of your shirt where its ridden up at your waist.

You’re barely breathing, afraid that any acknowledgment will make him stop, afraid that the touch you’ve been craving for so long will disappear before you even have the chance to feel it. His thumb runs over the hem again, and this time his fingertips dip beneath it—barely a touch, the rough pad of his finger against soft skin, and the sensation is so acute it makes your spine arch involuntarily.

He freezes, thumb stilling mid-stroke, as if suddenly remembering exactly who he is—and who he shouldn’t be right now. 

“Don't stop,” you whisper.

His forehead drops to your shoulder. “You rang the bell.”

“I rang the bell.”

“The bell means you need me.”

“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”

When his hand moves again, it isn’t the absentminded tracing from before. His palm slides across your stomach with intent now, exploring the naked skin beneath your top—up your ribs, down to the dip of your waist, to the space just above the waistband of your shorts.

A soft noise catches in your throat and his hand stills, as if deciding whether to reward or reprimand the sound.

“More?” he asks against your neck.

You nod. “More.”

His hand resumes, but he doesn't go further, continuing the same path—ribs, waist, hip—following it again and again, learning you by touch. And every time his fingers drift close to the waistband, your breath catches, and each time he retreats to safer ground without crossing the line.

“Zayne—” Your voice is thin with want. “That's not—you're teasing me.”

“I’m doing exactly what you asked,” he replies, casually enough to make you want to put a pillow over his face. “You asked me to touch you. I'm touching you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know what you said. If you want something else, you'll have to request it.” His thumb draws an infuriating circle around your navel. “I’m a butler, not a psychic.”

He's playing the game, you realize. Your game, your rules, following your every request to the letter, and the compliance is intoxicating. He owns the control, yet the way he bends just enough to match your desire feels like a form of surrender uniquely his. 

“Kiss me,” you try next.

“Where?”

You tilt your head to the side, certain he can see your pulse leaping where it shows. “My neck.”

He presses his lips there so gently it barely registers as contact, lingering for a moment before pulling back.

“Again,” you whisper.

He kisses the same spot equally soft, and you could scream from the tenderness of it, from how something so gentle can make you feel like you're burning alive.

“More.”

“More what?” His breath heats your skin as he speaks, and the almost-contact is worse than nothing. “Be specific.”

“Harder.” Your hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, and the groan that it pulls from him is quiet and improper and makes your thighs press together. “Open your mouth.”

He presses his mouth more firmly against your neck and parts his lips slightly, just enough for his tongue to steal a taste of your skin.

“Anything else, princess?” He holds there, lips parted against the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, breathing you in like he needs this just as much as you do. “I’m at your service.”

The title drips with affection and irony and heat, twisted together like ribbons old and new. Princess. He's called you that since you were small, since you used to stomp your foot and demand things and he'd raise an eyebrow and say as you wish, princess. Except now his tongue is on your body and your ass is pressed where his cock strains against his pajama pants and the word means something it was never supposed to mean.

You turn in his arms until you're facing each other on the pillow, his hand still on your waist under your shirt. This close, you can see where the hazel-green of his eyes has gone dark with desire, where his lips shine wet from where he kissed your neck, where the muscle of his jaw tenses with something that looks like it hurts to hold back.

You bring your hand up to soothe it, the stubble there rough against your fingertips. He leans into the touch, a tiny tilt of his head that presses his cheek harder against your palm.

“I want you to kiss me,” you whisper, “here.” You touch your own lips.

He leans in slowly, mouth stopping just short of yours, hovering over your lips.

“Here?” he asks.

“Yes.”

The kiss is barely anything. A brush of lips, the softest pressure, there and gone before you can feel it. You chase his mouth as he pulls back, but he's already out of reach—settled against the pillow, calm on the surface, though the flush at the tips of his ears betrays him.

“That wasn’t a kiss,” you pout.

“It was, definitionally, a kiss.”

“It lasted half a second.”

“You didn't specify the duration.”

“Zayne.”

“Yes?"

“Kiss me longer.”

He leans in again, pressing his mouth to yours for—you count—exactly two seconds.

“Zayne.”

“That was measurably longer. I can go get a stopwatch if you'd like to formalize the parameters.”

You roll your eyes and swear you feel his wrist twitch at your side.

“I want you to kiss me like you can't help yourself. Like if you have to tear your mouth away from mine you'll lose your mind. I want the kiss I imagine when I’m alone in the bath and I close my eyes and pretend it’s your hands on my—” You stop to catch your breath, frustrated, heat rising to your face that’s part shame, part want, all desperate anticipation. “That kiss. Give me that one. Please.”

His hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, cradling your head, angling you beneath him. His eyes move between yours and your mouth and back again, and the man who read you bedtime stories and carried you when you fell and tucked your blankets with precise corners is nowhere in this room. The man looking at your mouth right now is one who has been drowning for years and decided that here, now, tonight, he’s coming up for air.

“Hold still,” he says, and kisses you again.

This time he starts slow and stays slow, his lips moving against yours with a patience that burns, learning the shape of your mouth, the way you respond to pressure. His tongue traces your lower lip, not parting it, but outlining the edge, you whimper at the tease of it.

He swallows the sound, feeding it into his mouth like he means to keep it long past tonight, a secret possession for him and him alone. Finally—finally—his tongue slides against yours, deep and unhurried, filling your mouth until there’s nothing left but feeling.

The kiss goes on and on and on. Zayne is in no rush. He kisses you like he has all night, like time is a resource he intends to spend lavishly, like every stroke of his tongue against yours is an end in itself rather than a means to something else. And each time you try to speed up he gentles you, his hand on the back of your neck holding you in place, his mouth setting the pace, refusing to let anything take this moment away from him until he’s ready to release it.

Your hands slip underneath his shirt, pressing flat against his abdomen, and the muscles there flex at the contact. You trail both hands upward, following the ridges of his ribs until he huffs out a breath against your lips.

“Eager,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.

“Impatient,” you correct, tugging the hem of his shirt up his chest. “And maybe a little eager.”

“A little, hm?” He catches both of your wrists, halting your exploration. “These are going above your head.”

“That seems unnecessarily restrictive.”

“It seems like the only way to keep you from getting ahead of yourself.” He guides your wrists to the pillow above your head, pinning you there with one hand. “Better. Now stay.”

He releases his hold to remove his shirt, and whatever bratty comment you had prepared dies in your throat the moment he tosses it to the floor in a move so unlike your butler you’d laugh under different circumstances. He works your top off next, pulling it up and over your arms, letting it join his on the ground. 

The cool air makes your skin prickle, and you fight the immediate urge to cover yourself—a reflex that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that you’re not generous in this department, never have been, and lying beneath him with your arms above your head and nothing to hide behind makes you feel completely, uselessly small.

“Don’t,” he says quietly.

“Don't what?"

“Whatever you're thinking right now. Stop.” His fingertips graze your collarbone, then lower,  trailing between your breasts. “You have no idea how many times I've thought about this body.”

“About my tragically average—”

“Finish that sentence and I'll make you wish you hadn’t.” His palm covers your breast easily, thumb brushing across your nipple. “These are perfect. And I don't say that about many things.”

“You say that about your silverware polish.”

“My silverware polish is also perfect. You're in excellent company.” He rolls your nipple between his fingers and your back arches off the mattress. “Responsive, too. Do that again.”

“I can't just do it on command—”

He rolls your nipple once more, firmer this time, and your body betrays you with an identical arch, with a sharp hiss of breath you can't hold in. Zayne watches it all unfold with an expression of deep, undeniable satisfaction.

“Interesting,” he says. “So it's pressure-dependent.”

“Are you taking notes?”

“I'm nothing if not thorough.” 

He lowers his mouth to your breast, and the first brush of his tongue is almost painful in its relief. He paints a lazy, wet path before closing his lips around your nipple and sucking hard, drawing out a humiliatingly loud gasp from you that echoes through the room.

“That—” he says before his mouth closes around you again, teasing his teeth around the peak “—is my new favorite sound.”

He moves to the other side, giving it the same attention—tongue and teeth and the occasional scrape of stubble that sends sparks straight down your spine. His free hand stays on the breast his mouth just left, rolling your tight nipple between his fingers, then trails down your stomach, fingers grazing along the top of your shorts before retreating. Again and again he teases, each time a little further, each time making you jerk your hips up, chasing contact he keeps pulling away.

“You're doing that on purpose,” you say.

“Doing what on purpose?” 

His fingers line the waistband again, dipping just below the elastic, and pull back. He blinks down at you, all wide-eyes and deceptive innocence, and you’re certain you’d be strangling him if your hands weren’t busy holding onto the pillowcase above your head for dear life.

“That. You keep almost touching me and then—“

“Patience—” He kisses the underside of your breast, your sternum, the dip of your navel. “—is a virtue.”

“Patience is for people who aren't this turned on.”

He pins your hip with one hand and you squirm harder, as if your body senses where he's headed and is vibrating with the need to get there faster, faster, faster.

“You never could hold still, could you?” You’re flipped onto your stomach so fast the room blurs.  He works your shorts down your legs, leaving you facedown in nothing but your underwear. “Not once in twenty years.”

His hand strikes the curve of your ass.

You gasp, not from pain, more from the shock of it. The thrill that Zayne—controlled, careful Zayne—just spanked you on top of the same pink sheets he used to tuck you into.

“That's for squirming,” he says.

He lowers and presses a kiss to the spot he just struck, then smooths it over with his palm.

“You always needed this part,” he mouths against your skin, where it tingles from the sting. “The injury was never the problem. You just wanted someone to make it better after.” He travels higher, kissing up to the small of your back. “Every scraped knee. Every bruise. Every splinter you could have pulled out yourself but brought to me instead.”

“You had better hands than the first aid kit.”

“I had hands you trusted.” His hand settles at the base of your spine, nearly spanning the width of your low back. “You'd come find me wherever I was in the house and hold out whatever was hurt. Then stand there as long as it took for me to pay attention, looking up at me like I could fix anything.”

“You could fix anything.”

His hand slides up your spine with a familiarity that prickles at the edges of your memory. You've felt this hand on your back before—this exact path, this exact pressure.

Zayne has, too.

“Do you remember,” he says, bracketing your hips with his knees, “when you had me put sunscreen on your back?”

He asks as if every detail isn’t burned into your being.

It was the summer before you left for university—the sun was too bright, the pool smelled of chlorine, and your hot girl summer playlist terrorized every corner of the estate. You lay on your stomach by the pool with your bikini top untied and your bottoms hardly covering anything, and called your butler over with a voice you'd practiced sounding careless in the shower a dozen times.

Zayne, I need sunscreen. I can't reach my back.

He'd knelt beside your chair and obliged. His hands had been cool from the shade inside, the sunscreen warm from the sun. The restraint in his palms as they moved across your bare skin should have been unsexy but wasn't, because you could feel the effort in it as his fingers slid down your spine, across your waist, along the sides of your body.

You missed a spot, you'd said, though he hadn't. Still, he'd gone back and covered the same ground slower.

My legs, too.

His hands had worked your thighs, slick with sunscreen, rubbing the lotion from the backs of your knees up to where your thighs met the barely-there bottoms, the two inches of swimsuit the only barrier between the wet heat pooling between your legs and your butler’s thorough hands.

“I remember,” you whisper.

He traces the path now—down your spine, your waist, to the flare of your hip. The same route, the same pressure, except there's no sunscreen and no pretense, just his hands on your body.

“You lay there for an hour after I went inside,” he says, moving his palms in the upward strokes he'd used that afternoon. “In those godforsaken bottoms that hardly qualified as clothing.”

“They qualified.”

“They qualified as a provocation.” His hands move to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin. “And every time I moved away from them, you'd wiggle your hips and tell me I missed a spot.”

“You did miss spots.”

“I didn't miss a single spot. I take UV protection very seriously.” His knuckles graze your inner thighs, and your hips lift involuntarily. “You just wanted my hands closer to places they had no business being.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“No? So you don't remember what happened when I reached right about—” His hand stills at the crease of your thigh, fingers resting against the edge of your underwear. “—here?”

You press your face into the pillow because you remember exactly what happened.

“You spread these legs apart, just enough for my fingers to go somewhere they shouldn't have.” He follows the edge of your underwear with one fingertip, over the swell of your ass, down to the strip between your legs that does nothing to hide how desperate you are for his touch. “And I cleared my throat. And you said sorry, I'm just getting comfortable. And I said of course. And we both pretended nothing happened.”

“Something happened.”

“Something happened,” he agrees. “And you knew. You always knew. That's why you kept pushing me, isn’t it?”

He traces the same line again, the border between what’s covered and what isn’t. Though this time when he dips low, he stays there—hand cupping you fully through your underwear, the pressure of his palm against the soaked fabric at your pussy delicious and unbearable and enough to make you moan.

“Answer me.”

“Mm,” you manage. He rocks the heel of his palm in a slow circle, and your nails dig into the sheets. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He grinds against you more firmly, pressing the damp cotton deeper between your folds. You try to press back, to reach for the friction you’ve been chasing all night, but he pulls his hand away.

“Yes,” you concede in a shaky exhale. “Yes, I knew, and I—I wanted to see what would happen if you didn't walk away. If you just—kept going.”

“Kept going where?”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “You know where.”

“I have a long list of places I've wanted to put my hands on you.” From this angle, you’re able to watch as he fists his cock over his soft pants, the light grey fabric darkened with precum where the head of him leaks. “So you're going to have to clarify which one you were hoping for.”

“Past my bikini. Past the line you always—” Your breath catches as his fingers brush inside your underwear, skating the skin he's never touched. “—always stopped at.”

“Like this?” His fingers slide deeper, tracing along the edge of your slit as he strokes himself more firmly, still not quite touching you properly.

“Further.”

“Greedy.” He removes his hand entirely, and you wince at the loss. “And then what? If I hadn't walked away. If I'd let my hand keep going while you lay there in the sun pretending to be innocent. What did you want to happen next?”

“I wanted you to—”

Your thoughts are interrupted by a blunt pressure against your center from behind—not Zayne’s hand this time, but his cock. The tip nudges between your thighs over the soaked cotton, the warm weight settling against the outline of your needy cunt.

“Keep talking,” he says, voice nearly a groan. He stays motionless, the thick head of him pressing the fabric further into you, letting you feel exactly what he’s withholding. “You wanted me to what, princess?”

“I wanted—” You try to push back against him, and his hand blocks your hip. “I wanted you to stop thinking and just take what you wanted.”

“What I wanted.” He rocks forward slightly, a small movement that drags his leaking tip down the length of you, his precum mixing with your wet arousal as he slides toward your clit. “You were eighteen years old, lying outside on a pool chair, and you wanted me to put my hand into your bikini and touch you.”

“Yes.”

“In the middle of the afternoon. Where your parents could have walked out and seen.”

“As if they’d bother paying attention.” He smacks his cock against your underwear deliberately, and any attempt at keeping your voice casual shatters. “Besides, I didn't care.”

“No. You didn’t.” Your panties cling to every part of you, slick enough that he slides easily between your thighs. The friction is obscene—his cock hard and throbbing where you’re soft and needy, separated by nothing but a scrap of ruined underwear. “I had to care enough for both of us. And you made me pay for it with every little scheme you pulled to put my hands on you and watch me try to walk away.”

“And?” You dare through gritted teeth, smirking into the pillow. “Did it work?”

His hand at your hip guides the rhythm into something more punishing. His mouth finds the back of your neck, and the kiss he presses there is soft and completely at odds with the way his hips are bucking against yours. 

“I’m grinding my cock against your pretty little cunt in your childhood bed, sweetheart. What do you think?” 

He pulls away suddenly, and between the filthy words and loss of his weight you think you actually could cry. 

“These—” His fingers hook under the center strip of your underwear, knuckles gliding up and down between your swollen folds as he assesses. “—have been through enough tonight.”

“So ruin them the rest of the way.”

He tears the fabric with two hands, ripping them off you in one clean pull. His hands spread you open from behind, and the sound he makes at the sight of you—bare before him for the first time—goes straight to your core.

“Christ.” His thumbs trace the inside of your thighs, spreading you wider. “Look at you.”

He lowers his mouth to your low back and kisses his wa down, patient even now, following the path of your spine, nipping the curve of your ass, outlining the crease of your thigh with his tongue. You feel his breath against your center, warm and unsteady, then the lightest brush of his nose against your entrance as he breathes you in.

“Fuck, Zayne—”

“Language,” he chides, the word humming against you. His tongue drags a single, slow line through you from behind, and you both groan at the contact. “If you could follow instructions even once in your life, this would go much faster.”

“I don't want faster. I want more.“

“You'll get more. When I decide you've earned it.”

His tongue works in long strokes, tasting every inch of you he can reach from this angle, and when he finds a spot that makes your thighs tense under his palms, he stays there.

“You're—that’s—”

Your lack of composure only seems to spur him further. “Articulate as always.” 

He licks into you over and over again, and you feel yourself clench around nothing, feel your body begging for something to hold onto that he hasn't given you yet. The angle this way, his mouth against you from behind, is indirect and maddeningly intimate and never quite enough and always almost there.

“Zayne—I swear to god.”

“Swear all you want.” His tongue barely grazes you, keeping you suspended with a laziness that borders on cruel. “Begging looks good on you.”

He spreads you apart wider with both thumbs and builds you back up with wet, hungry strokes that don’t have a rhythm, that aren’t meant to serve a purpose other than to let him taste what he does to your body, what he’s been doing to it since long before he answered the bell tonight. Pleasure pools low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, and you're right at the edge and—

He pulls away.

“No—” you whine. ”I was right there—Zayne, don’t—“

“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Not from this.”

“You can't just—”

“I can. And I did.” You hear him moving behind you, feeling the shift of weight against the mattress as he discards the last of his clothes. “The only place you’re going to come tonight is around my cock, and that’s not open for negotiation. I've waited too long for it to happen any other way.”

You feel the head of his cock press against you, this time bare against your slick skin. He doesn't enter yet, resting there with one hand on your hip, the other flat on the mattress beside your head.

“Last chance to ring the bell,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop.”

“If you stop now I will scream.”

He pushes in.

It’s slow, so slow you feel the stretch of every inch building in a long, devastating ache that empties your lungs and fills you with him. He groans hot against the back of your neck, fingers digging into your hip, and when he bottoms out you both need time to breathe. You’ve never felt so complete as you do in this moment, so perfectly full, Zayne’s cock thick and heavy as it throbs inside you. Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, pulling him deeper inside.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

“Language,” you mutter, the tremble in your voice undermines any sense of authority.

“You're right. How unprofessional of me.” He pulls back in a slow drag against your walls that makes your mouth fall open—and pushes forward again. “I’ll submit a formal apology. After I’ve made you come so hard you can’t speak, let alone critique my vocabulary.”

He starts to move, the full length of him withdrawing and filling you whole, and when he finds the spot that makes your thighs shake he doesn't say a word. You're soaked—you feel it on your thighs, hear it in every wet slide of him inside you, and your face burns even as your body seeks his with every thrust.

“You get tighter every time I pull out,” he observes. “Like you're trying to keep me inside you.”

"Am not—"

“You are.” He grinds forward and you clench around him again—hard—and his breath comes out in a hiss. “And it's making it very difficult to think straight.”

You turn your head on the pillow, looking back at him over your shoulder, because you need to see his face, need to see what Zayne looks like right now, inside you and undone. With his jaw tense, eyes dark, sweat at his temples—he looks nothing like the butler who irons his shirts twice and arranges bookshelves alphabetically. He looks like a man who has wanted something for a very long time and is finally, finally taking it.

“Eyes on me,” he commands when he catches your gaze drifting away. “You started this. You're going to watch me finish it.”

You scrunch your nose and stick your tongue out at him. “Make me.”

His eyes narrow with a flash between amusement and danger, and he wraps your hair around his wrist and pulls—enough to keep your face turned toward him, your neck arched, your eyes locked on his while he drives into you from behind.

“There's your make me, princess,” he says low, hips bucking harder with the leverage. “Any other requests?”

“Several,” you manage between thrusts, “but at your age I’d hate to put too much strain on you.”

“In all the scenarios I’ve imagined.” He gathers your hair tighter, using the grip to tilt your head back, and his tongue traces the exposed line of your throat from your shoulder to the bone of your jaw. “Not once did stamina come up as a concern.”

“You've been dreaming about me?” You try to sound unaffected despite the fact that your voice is shaking and your knuckles are white in the sheets. “Should I be flattered?”

“You should be terrified. I've had a long time to plan,” he says against your neck. “Though in my head, you were slightly less mouthy.”

You clench around him deliberately, and his groan vibrates against your back. “And in mine, you were considerably less smug.”

Zayne sucks hard at the sensitive skin above your collarbone in response before releasing your hair, letting it fall down your back. He braces both arms on either side of your head, and the change in position lets him go harder and deeper, his hips driving you into the mattress with each thrust.

“You've spent your whole life making sure no one could take care of you the way I do. Making sure no one else fit. Ruining yourself for anyone who wasn't me.” His hand reaches beneath you, and the first touch to your swollen, aching clit makes your entire body tense. He circles with barely any pressure, in time to the grind of his hips, and the combined sensation is almost too much to bear. “So now I’m going to give you everything you’ve been asking for all this time. Take care of you the way I’ve always wanted to. And you’re going to be good for me and take it.”

Every edge he pulled you back from tonight, every almost, every year of wanting with nothing to show for it—all of it—collects into a single climax that tears through your body in waves. You clench around him so hard his hips stutter, and his mouth is at your ear the whole time—

That's it—that's my girl—you've been waiting so long for this, haven't you? So long. I know. I know. I've got you. Feel that? That's all for you. You earned this—you earned every bit of it—

—and his voice is the anchor you cling to while the rest of you drowns, his name the only word left in your mouth, your mind, your heart.

He slows, letting you breathe as your aftershocks tighten around him in involuntary pulses. And you wait for it—for his hips to drive forward one final time, for the heat of him to fill you from the inside the way you've always imagined it would.

He pulls out instead, and the sudden emptiness makes you frown, your hips pressing back against nothing, searching for him.

“Zayne—why did you—” You turn your head, and the confusion must be written across your face, because his gaze softens even as he strokes his cock, slick from you, in long pulls.

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he says, and the two words form a promise that makes your heart flip—that there will be other nights, that this is the first and not the last, that he’s already planning the ones that come after. “Tonight I want to see it on your skin.”

He straightens behind you, settling both hands on your hips. His thumbs press into the dip of your lower back, pressing circles over the skin there.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you asked me to put my hands on you by that pool. And I've thought about it every day since.” His palms trace the canvas of your back a final time. “Marking you. Imagining how pretty you'd look with the evidence of what you do to me all over your body.”

“You don’t have to imagine, Zayne. I’m right here.” You arch your back for him in shameless offering, and the sound he makes at the sight is low and wrecked and strips away any remaining possibility that either of you will ever recover from this night. “I’ve always been right here.”

“You're going to be the end of me,” he says through a ragged sigh. “You know that. You've always known that.”

“Promise?” you murmur, tilting your hips higher, giving him more of yourself.

His laugh is barely a sound, and his hand picks up speed, rougher now, knuckles brushing against your skin with each tight stroke. You watch his lips part, watch his brow furrow, watch the moment arrive on his face before you feel it on your skin—the warmth of his release spilling across the small of your back in pulses, painting your body with the proof that he was here, that this happened, that you belong to him in a way no amount of respectable distance will ever undo.

He stays like that for a while, breathing hard, looking at you looking at him. His expression softens into something so affectionate it makes your chest ache, and he leans down and presses a long, lingering kiss between your shoulder blades. 

“Promise.” His hand finds yours on the pillow, squeezing once before pressing a kiss between your shoulderblades and lifting himself off you. “Now don't move. Give me ten seconds.”

“Was that an order? Because I've been told I'm bad at those.”

He grabs his pants from the floor, sliding them up over his hips. “Nine seconds.” 

You hear the tap running, the drip of a towel being wrung out in the sink. He's back before you can count to four—warm cloth in one hand, cold glass of water in the other—and sits beside you on the bed.

He cleans you with a care that shouldn’t surprise you but makes tears prick behind your eyes anyway, following the path his mouth traveled earlier, rewarming the cloth twice because it cooled too fast and he noticed before you did. He wipes your thighs, the backs of your knees, places that don't need cleaning but get attention anyway. When he reaches the small of your back, he presses his lips against the clean skin there one final time before setting the cloth aside.

He helps you into fresh pajamas—a matching flannel set he selects from the second drawer of your dresser—lifting your arms, guiding them through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders and down your back. The gesture is so careful, so him, so entirely removed from everything his hands were doing ten minutes ago that a tear actually escapes down your cheek before you can catch it.

His thumb finds it, though, and wipes it away without comment, without concern, without making it into something you'd have to explain. He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders, tucking the edge beneath your chin the way he's done since you were small, and reaches for the glass on the nightstand.

“Drink,” he says, holding it to your lips.

“I’m fine—"

“Humor me.” The corner of his mouth lifts, barely. “I’ve been humoring you all night.”

He watches as you drink, gives a small nod of approval once he’s satisfied you’ve had enough, then sets the glass on the nightstand. He pulls on his t-shirt—you mourn the loss of his bare chest immediately—and slides under the covers beside you.

When you curl against him, his arms wrap around you like a reflex he's done fighting.

“I should resign,” he murmurs. 

“You should absolutely not resign.”

“This is a rather significant breach of professional boundaries.”

“I don't care about your professional boundaries. I care about you staying in this bed.”

He lifts his head to look at you in the lamplight. With his hair wrecked, glasses long gone, and an expression so open and unguarded, he looks…younger. Lighter. Like something heavy has been set down after years of carrying it.

“Stay,” you whisper. “Not as my butler. Not as my anything. Just stay.”

His arm tightens around your waist. You feel his heartbeat match yours, both rhythms slowing to something calm. His chin settles on the top of your head, and for a while neither of you speaks, but the silence is nothing like the one that scared you an hour ago.

“Mm,” you hum against his chest. “I always get what I want eventually.”

“You do.” His thumb traces a lazy circle on your shoulder. “It’s your single most irritating quality.”

“And yet you keep indulging me.”

“You are exceptionally difficult to say no to.”

“So stop trying.”

“I suppose that would simplify my schedule considerably.” He pulls you closer. “Free up the hours I currently spend on damage control and cold showers.”

“See? Efficient. You love efficiency.”

“I do love efficiency.” His mouth presses against your hair, and you feel him smile. “Though I suspect you're going to be far more work than you were before tonight. Not less.”

“Probably.”

“Almost certainly.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” His fingers find the spot behind your knee—the left one, the one he knows is ticklish—and you yelp, squirming against him, your laugh bright in the quiet room. He catches you before you can escape and pulls you back against his chest. “Now promise me you’ll ring the bell again tomorrow.”

“That depends. Will you read me more Austen?”

“If you behave.”

“And if I don’t?”

His teeth graze your earlobe, tongue teasing the sensitive skin just below. “Then I suppose I’ll have to resort to alternative methods of tiring you out.”

You give his chest a playful shove and he catches your hand, kissing each knuckle one by one. You melt closer, curling yourself tighter against his chest, letting the cadence of his breathing, the warmth of his arms, the undeniable sense of home pull you under.

The house continues its symphony through the night—wind whistling through the cracks, pipes bellowing deep in the walls, wood floors sighing under the weight of the night.

Uh-oh, you gulp, that sounded less like a promise and more like a warning. You hear the subtle noises of Zayne moving around next to you.

“Fuck you,” Caleb curses through gritted teeth. “That’s not fair.”

You frown, wondering what Caleb’s on about, and then two fingers spread your pussy lips apart and you feel an all too familiar toy be placed on your clit. Zayne presses the button to turn on the toy and it immediately sucks hard at your clit.

“Oh sh-shiiit!” You cry, back arching off the bed and wrists pulling at the ropes. “Oh god, oh fuck, please.”

“You don’t need to ask permission to come today.” Zayne tells you, although you’re not sure that’s a good thing. “I’d say come as many times as you want but you’ll be coming whether you want to or not.” Yep, definitely not a good thing.

Your cunt clenches at his words and you can sense your orgasm approaching already, and thanks to his previous work on your g-spot you can feel that you’re about to make a mess. It’s no coincidence that making you squirt is one of Caleb’s favourite things and there’s no doubt that it’s Zayne’s intention to force him to watch you gush over the sheets.

“So close, so close—fuck!” Zayne presses the button to up the suction on the toy and it doesn’t take long before you feel your cum start to leak out of you. “C-coming!”

Caleb grunts and you hear the chair scrape against the floor in obvious frustration as you keep coming. You must be soaking the bed, you can feel it splattering out of you and the suction on your clit just keeps dragging it on and on.

“That’s it,” Zayne doesn’t remove the toy. “Keep coming.”

You cry out in frustration, it’s not as if you have a choice right now. You feel your orgasm subside but the toy doesn’t let up, it just sucks away on your hard nub.

“Z-Zay—wait, p-please!” You beg.

Zayne grabs your bound wrists and moves them down to hold the toy at your pussy, replacing his own hand.

“Keep that on your clit.” He instructs. “And don’t move it unless told otherwise.”

Caleb feels like he’s losing his mind. He genuinely thought he was going to come without even being touched when he watched you squirt all over the bed. And now he’s just having to sit here and listen to your tortured moans while you writhe around and, fuck, he just needs to shove his cock inside of that sopping wet cunt so badly. He wants to press your legs to your chest, pound into you, feel you squirt around him.

But it seems Zayne has other ideas for him tonight. He watches the other man suspiciously when he comes to Caleb’s side with something hidden behind his back.

“Don’t look at me. Look at her.” Zayne’s being particularly strict today, it seems.

Caleb huffs in annoyance but complies all the same. But now he wishes he didn’t, because he can tell you’re about to come and he doesn’t know if he can take it.

“Oooh my god, I—fuck—I’m coming again already.” He can see your walls pulse around nothing, more cum dribbling out of your hole and over the plug, and there’s a puddle forming underneath your ass.

He’s so distracted by watching you convulse on the bed that he barely notices Zayne reach down to slip a stroker toy over his cock.

“Haah,” Caleb gasps when it’s pushed all the way to the base before being dragged back up. Shit, he’s so worked up he’s going to come embarrassingly quick. “Zayne—if you—fuck—”

He focuses on his breathing, in, out, in, out. Just hold it off for a few more minutes, he tells himself.

“Open them.” Caleb’s eyes jolt open at Zayne’s deep voice next to his ear.

Unfortunately it’s at that moment you begin whimpering when your third orgasm breaks over you and Caleb’s cock immediately spurts rope after rope of cum up onto his chest.

“Fuuuuck.” Caleb’s voice cracks as he groans. His wrists pull tightly on the ropes behind him and he bucks his hips up into Zayne’s fist holding the toy. “Yes, yes, yesss.”

He keeps his eyes on you, watches how your hands shake with the effort to keep the toy on your clit and how cum just keeps oozing out of your little hole and another few more spurts of cum burst from his tip as Zayne keeps moving the toy over his cock.

His abs twitch with how sensitive he is, the stroker feels so fucking good on his cock and the sound is obscene now that his cum has slipped in to create a copious amount of lube, but his orgasm is most definitely over.

“Z-Zayne,” he practically pleads. “C’mon—I can’t—mmm–”

It isn’t until he looks up to see Zayne smirking at him that he realises he’s going to be forced to endure the same torture as you. A little whimper slips from his mouth.

The pleasure is so intense and something is rising deep in his gut. Is he really about to come again?

“I know you’ve got more in you.” Zayne mutters into his ear, mixing with the sound of your pained moans. “And I’m going to force it out of you.”

“I-I don’t know if I—hnng—if I can,” he stutters. He tries to move his hips away but all it really does is move his cock in and out of the toy’s sleeve and suddenly he’s desperately fucking up into it while Zayne holds it still. “O-oh shit, g-gonna—aah—gonna come again.”

He didn’t think he’d be able to come again so soon, and it doesn’t wrack his body as much as the first, but a surprising amount of cum still pumps out and splatters onto his belly. He feels Zayne’s breathy chuckle on his ear more than he hears it. Bastard.

Caleb’s overstimulated whimpering is what brings you to climax the fourth—or maybe it’s the fifth—time. You wish you could see what he’s doing. Is he using his mouth? Hand? A toy? You have no idea what’s making Caleb whine so prettily and it frustrates you to no end. It seems like Zayne’s worked out the best form of punishment for you both—Caleb’s forced to watch knowing he can’t touch and you’re forced to listen knowing you can’t see. All you can do is sob as the pleasure keeps rolling over you, you’re not even sure if this is the same orgasm or an entirely new one. Each one bleeds into the next and it’s starting to get too much for you.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!” You cry, closing your thighs but keeping the toy where it belongs as it continues to suck relentlessly against your poor little clit.

“You can remove the toy.” Zayne says to you whilst pulling the stroker off of Caleb’s cock causing him to sigh in relief.

You immediately drop the toy, not even bothering to turn it off, and you heave in several shaky breaths. Caleb finally allows his eyes to close for a moment, taking a second to ground himself as he hears Zayne placing the toys to the side.

Once he’s done, Zayne gently grabs your arms, pulls you up into a sitting position and then slowly helps you to stand. You absentmindedly wonder why he hasn’t removed the blindfold or untied the rope around your wrists. He begins leading you over to Caleb and your legs shake with each step.

“You’re like a newborn deer.” Caleb chuckles tiredly.

“Shut up.” There’s no malice to your voice and he can see the little smile forming on your face. Zayne keeps walking you until your knees bump into Caleb’s.

Then he’s maneuvering you so that you’re straddling him, placing your still tied arms to hang around his neck.

“W-wait.” Caleb says with sudden realisation. “Are you really…”

“Mhm.” Zayne hums in confirmation whilst giving the other man a smirk. He grasps Caleb’s cock firmly, slick and sticky with his cum, and lines it up with your messy pussy. “Sit down, sweetheart.”

Caleb’s so damn sensitive that as soon as your cunt sinks down on him he feels a couple of dribbles of cum leak out of his tip and into you.

“F-fuck.” He whimpers. “Haah, s’too much, oh my fucking god.”

Part of you feels sorry for Caleb; whilst your clit is incredibly sensitive to the point where even the tiniest touch makes you twitch, at least it’s only that and not that your hole has been stretched and abused like it normally is when you receive a punishment from the two of them.

A pulse runs through your clit and you unintentionally clench down around Caleb.

“C-can you not!” He chokes on a moan.

“I didn’t do it deliberately!” You refute, turning your head to give Caleb a decisively annoyed look despite knowing he can’t see your expression.

Zayne turns to hide his smile. Even while you’re being punished you two still act like this. It’s why he loves you.

He eases the plug out of your ass before applying plenty of lube to his own cock. He tells you to relax, pushing you forward to rest against Caleb, and slowly works his way into your tight hole. He hears you sigh in relief when he notches the head of his cock inside.

“Good girl, you’re taking me so well.” He praises, the bulk of your punishment now being over. “You’ve both done very well for me today.”

Caleb groans as he feels your cunt get tighter the more Zayne pushes into your ass. His cock feels so unbelievably raw and overused inside of you. Meanwhile you’re all too aware of how Caleb’s cum smears against your tits and stomach, it’s filthy and sticky but, god, does it turn you on.

The two of you moan when Zayne starts to rock his hips, cock sliding in and out of your ass while Caleb’s just sits still inside of you. Zayne’s hands sit on your hips and Caleb’s head is tucked in at your neck, and you feel more than you hear the muffled whines into your skin.

Your clit keeps brushing against Caleb’s pelvis, and as much as you really don’t think you can come again, somehow you feel that need bubbling up.

“I…I can’t…” You sob, scraping your fingers through Caleb’s hair and grasping lightly. “C-can’t come again.”

“You can.” Zayne says with a grunt, hips picking up speed. “Do you want to know why?” A rhetorical question no doubt but you shake your head anyway. “Because you don’t have a choice.” His firm thrusts jostle you into Caleb, causing his still surprisingly hard cock to press against your g-spot. “I’m going to drag that final orgasm from your body. From both of your bodies.”

His words send you over the edge one last time, pussy gently clamping down on the two cocks stuffed inside you, and you feel the tingles spread across your whole body. You go limp against Caleb, letting Zayne use you as he seeks his own release.

Caleb doesn’t know how—he doesn’t feel like he should have any cum left in his body—but your cunt manages to squeeze the last few remaining drops out of him. He whimpers quietly into your shoulder, shuddering as his final orgasm washes over him, sending his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

───────

Both of your bodies are coated in cum and sweat. Ideally, Zayne would rather just put the two of you in the shower but he genuinely doesn’t think either of your legs work well enough to do that right now.

“Let me dampen some cloths and I’ll clean you both up.” He says and wanders off to the adjoining bathroom.

You and Caleb lie quietly next to each other, enjoying the peace and the chance to come down from the evening’s activities.

“Think my cock died.” Caleb murmurs and you just snicker, reaching down to thread your fingers through his.

“Want me to kiss it better?” You tease.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.” He says through a laugh. “My cock is off active duty until further notice.” He squeezes your hand and turns his head to you. “You doin’ okay?”

“Mhmmm.” You hum with a giddy smile and Caleb just laughs at you.

“I think you’ll find this portion of the session is my job.” Zayne says lightly as he returns, now fully cleaned up and with a small bundle of wet cloths in his arms.

“Psshh, can’t ask our girlfriend how she’s doing after having her clit sucked until it’s raw?” He says, voice dripping in sarcasm.

Zayne just smiles and kneels up on the bed, ready to begin wiping up the mess he made. He leans over to deal with Caleb first.

“It’s okay, I can do it.” Caleb tries to take the cloth from his hand.

Zayne tuts and lightly slaps his hand away.

“Let me look after you.” He says softly. For Zayne, this is the most important part of getting Caleb to be vulnerable in these scenes—not submitting to him, not giving up the control or power—but allowing someone to take care of him. He’s spent his whole life looking after you, and maybe part of Zayne feels guilty that he had to do it alone since he left when they were children, so he simply wants to return the favour. And if draining him of every drop of cum until he can barely function is how he has to do it, then so be it.

Caleb reluctantly lets his hand drop to his side and allows Zayne to clean him up, humming in content as the warm cloth wipes away the smears of cum on his belly but hissing as he wipes down the sensitive head of his cock. He smiles when Zayne gives the rope marks on his wrists a soft kiss.

Once he’s all cleaned up, Zayne moves on to you. You beam up at him as he gently washes the mess from your breasts and he can’t help but give you a warm smile back. This is his favourite part with you, seeing how utterly relaxed you are and enjoying being the one to help take away the day’s stress. He likes that you get giggly after, lets him know that you’re doing okay and puts his own mind at ease if he’s been particularly rough on you that session. He holds your wrists, repeating the same gentle kiss on each one as he did with Caleb’s.

He grabs a new cloth and parts your folds, cleaning as carefully as possible around your poor little clit. He makes sure to get the backs of your thighs and bottom where you were laid in the puddle of your own mess for a while. Which reminds him.

“Water.” Zayne suddenly says. “We need to make sure your fluids are replenished.” He gives you a final wipe and stands to go to the kitchen. “I’ll get some now.”

“Zaynie.” You say sweetly and he turns to look and finds you holding out a hand to him. “I can have water in a minute. Please come lie with us first?”

Caleb shuffles over and pats the newly made gap on the bed between you two.

“But–” Zayne starts, glancing back towards the kitchen.

“Zayne.” Caleb says with exaggerated seriousness. “Our girl would like some cuddles. Get over here.”

And this is the part he’s still not used to doing solo. When it’s him and Caleb working as a team, Caleb naturally falls into the role of coddling you while Zayne makes sure everyone’s cleaned, watered, and fed. Only after will he join you both.

Zayne sighs with a smile and climbs up onto the bed to sit between the two of you. Immediately he feels you snuggle into him, arm wrapping around his waist and face nuzzling into his chest. Caleb leans up on to his elbow, straining his neck to give Zayne a soft kiss on the lips.

“So I’m guessing we’ll need to arrange a funeral.” Zayne mutters against his lips. “Your cock did die, after all”

Your mates had ensured you would be prepared for this moment, stretching you open over the last week, stuffing you full of dildos to see if you were ready to take them.

You didn't expect to be like this: melting down into Valko's body, drooling against his shoulder, brain fuzzy and thoughts gone as they put theory into practice.

Valko groans, whining low in his throat as he forces himself to stay still. He can smell you. Smell Sylus. All of your arousal floods his nose, makes his cock leak in anticipation, has him panting with restraint. Your pretty little cunt is stretched around his dick, pressed in right down to the base. His tip pushes against your cervix, kissing it deeply as he tries not to prematurely flood your womb with his cum.

Sylus is the most put-together of you all, and even his composure is cracking at the edges. His right eye glows with burning desire, scales form and sharpen along his skin, and his chest heaves with heavy breaths. "Just one more, baby," he coos breathily. "You can take it."

The wolf huffs a choked laugh beside your ear. "They can't hear you. Poor baby can't even think anymore. Isn't that right, doll?"

Their words don't register anymore. You're so deliciously full. The heat - oh god, the heat of them all around you, inside of you. You're stretched open, barely supporting yourself on your knees. Your poor cunt is dripping around Valko's dick, onto the bed below.

When their hands caress you, you feel it through a haze. The sweet touch of your lovers, all your trust in their hands, puppet to their desires. Sylus grips your ass, spreading your cheeks apart to see just how your tight little hole swallows him. One cock shoved deep inside, while the other drips hot pre on your back. Valko grabs hold of your plush thigh and wraps an arm around your upper back, keeping you held flush against him as he eagerly watches Sylus over your shoulder.

Both of their eyes are locked on Sy's dick as he slowly pulls back and presses the tip against the hole with his thumb. He made sure you could withstand it. For his own sake, he ensured he would be able to fit inside. But, that isn't to say it wouldn't be a tight fit, especially when Val's thick cock is pressing against him through the inner walls of your cunt.

His hips slowly nudge forward. You whimper and whine as you feel the heads push in together, splitting you open in delicate, shallow thrusts. His head longs to tip back, mouth falling open around moans as he becomes hellbent on seeing you take them both. His sweet mate, swallowing both of his cocks at once.

"F-uck, kitten," he husks on a growl. It becomes deep and guttural at the end. Rumbling like a full-bodied dragon. His desires are suffocating. When he's finally able to bury himself to the hilt, he has to close his eyes and remember how to behave so he doesn't break you. You're so precious to him, his treasure, his mate - he can't hurt you. He can't-

"Fuck, you look so good."

The rough grunt pulls him from his draconic thoughts. He pries his eyes open to stare at Valko, at the wolf he's also claimed as his. Those pretty eyes that shine like gold caught in the sunlight...

Valko swallows thickly. His cock twitches with the need to move. God, he wants to fuck you so full. "S' pretty," he breathes. "Almost wish you were fuckin' me."

Sylus grins, wolfish and predatory. Oh, his sweet pup. "If you can keep up, I just might. Once our beloved is swollen and dripping, I'll use my cum to fuck your tight little asshole. How's that sound, dog?"

Valko whines, too animalistic to be human. He's panting already. The sight Sy just put into his head isn't helping. "If you've still got the energy, old man," he grits out.

"Deal."

Sylus presses your lower back down. Forces your knees to widen until you lay fully flush on top of Valko, and he can align himself to your spine. Val is already expecting it when the dragon's mouth descends on his, tongue licking out and claiming him, sealing the deal in spit.

Carefully, Sy rocks his hips, testing to see how easily he can move. You're still so tight, squeezing him so fucking good. Val feels him move through your gummy walls and mirrors him, easing himself out with what little room he's been given to move, and thrusting back in. Drool pools at the corner of his mouth as the kiss only gets sloppier.

You can't move. Sandwiched completely by your partners, you're locked in place, sweaty and superheated, as they begin picking up speed. You're just a toy for them to use. Just a cocksleeve waiting to be filled. You love it. You love the way your clit rubs against Val's pelvis. Love the way Sy's hips smack against your ass. You let go of any conscious thought you were desperately clinging to, and become a slave to the pleasure consuming you.

Valko wishes he'd thought about recording it beforehand. How he would have loved to get a camera and enhance it to record at a cinema-level quality. Aimed perfectly to watch your little holes get stretched open around their dicks. How their skin would shimmer with your arousal and lube and precum. Catch every last twitch of their balls as they unload every last drop of their cum into you...

He's going to be begging to do this again. Already resigning himself to giving up everything - even chocolate - if it means getting to see this erotic scene from every fucking angle.

Sylus bites his lip as he pulls away. His mouth immediately finds your neck, nipping and licking and sucking, overcome by the sheer instinctive need to mark you as his. Valko follows in his wake, leaving the imprint of his sharp teeth beside the impressions of Sy's. Biting through your delicate skin, making damn sure you're well and truly claimed. You mumble incoherently, moans and whimpers falling out with every thrust that punches into you.

Valko feels the flutter of your pussy spasming around him before your mind can even comprehend your orgasm. You squirm and writhe helplessly, unable to move much as they pin you tighter between them. Sylus knows, your ass clenching tight around him. So tight he has to slow down so he doesn't cum right then.

Val's knot is already swelling. Growing at the base of his dick, deep red and thick and eager to plug you up. His head falls back, teeth biting his lip. No, no, he can't knot you yet. You've only just begun, he can't- But, fuck, he can't hold back.

His face scrunches up in a grimace as he lets go of your thigh to grab his cock. He squeezes around his knot, pretending it's your pussy hugging it tight. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-!"

His hips lose their rhythm. The thick vein running along the underside of his dick pulses in time with each spurt of cum. Hot ropes that pour into you, creaming around his cock as it spills out, sticking to his fist and forming shiny, gossamer threads, connecting him to your glistening cunt.

Sylus hums, a low rumble in his throat. "You didn't last long, puppy," he teases. "You just couldn't wait to breed them, could you?"

The wolf whines, head pressing back into the pillow as he tries desperately to catch his breath. Sylus steals the opportunity to latch onto his neck. He bites and sucks at the prominent Adam's apple, grinning as it bobs under his lips. "C'mon, pup, you can keep going, can't you?"

"Yes," he gasps. "Yes, I wanna- wanna cum with you."

Sylus wasn't expecting that answer. He can feel the desire radiating from him, bleeding into his aether core. He bites down hard at the crook of his neck, where it meets his shoulder. He tastes iron on his tongue. Laps it up like a greedy vampire who hasn't tasted blood in years.

Valko hisses, but he gladly keeps his neck exposed to his dragon. He releases his knot, palm slick and messy, to tangle it in silver hair. His nails scratch hard at his scalp. Fingers tug at his hair. His hips pick back up, matching the pattern of Sylus's thrusts, even as the overstimulation burns.

The friction between bodies is intense. The sweat gathers in uncomfortable places, clinging to your belly and Val's, pooling at your chest, between his pecs. Even Sylus is dragging sweat against your back, dripping down his shoulders and onto yours. Sliding down his forehead, his nose, slicking Valko's neck just before he licks the combined perspiration off.

It's so hot. Too hot. You're panting, trying to catch a cool breath of air as the heat consumes you, encapsulating you entirely.

You claw at whatever you can grab. Mindlessly scratching at Valko's bicep, too weak to even leave a mark. "P-Please..." you whimper, voice wrecked and soft.

Sylus sits up, Val's hand falling from his hair to hold onto you again. The cold air that hits your back is a welcome reprieve, sending chills down your spine. "You can rest soon, sweetheart," he promises. He grabs onto your hips, holding you firm and steady as he fucks relentlessly into your poor, abused asshole. "Just a bit longer. Fuck, gonna fill you to the fucking brim, kitten."

Neither of them last much longer. Valko cums first, already too sensitive from his first orgasm to fight it. This time, though, he presses his hips hard against yours, pushing until your cunt finally accepts his knot. The tip of his cock presses open your cervix, forcing you to take every last drop of his cum.

Sylus cums with a loud groan, gasping as the intensity of it overwhelms him. It's been so long since he's allowed his draconic features to be revealed. Since he's had both dicks to experience twice the pleasure. He buries them as deep as they'll go, balls tightening as he spills loads of cum in your ass.

Your whole body shudders as it's overwhelmed by the sheer volume that fills you. Your stomach expanding, pressing more insistently against Valko's, as you struggle to hold it all. Sylus pulls back just enough to slip one cock out. He pushes the other back in, the second rubbing against the cleft of your ass as more cum coats the expanse of your back in pretty white ribbons. Stretched so wide, his cum spills out of your ass and down onto Valko's nuts, down his and your thighs and to the bed. It's all a fucking mess. An absolutely, delightfully delicious mess.

Sylus pants heavily, sitting carefully back on his knees as he wraps one hand around both cocks and pulls fully out of you. He squeezes them from base to tip, forcing every last drop out. Both are coated in an obscene white cream. Every slow pump of his fist carries a shlick sound through the room.

Valko gasps when he feels them prodding at his asshole. He stares through the haze of pleasure as Sylus smirks down at him.

"Don't forget our deal, puppy. I'm not done with you just yet..."

---

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