Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

[Smut Chapter ahead.]

Arion’s weight pressed him into the sheets. The heat of him bled through Dean’s thin lounge trousers and through the twisted remnants of Arion’s sleep shirt still bunched around his ribs. Dean’s own cream shirt had ridden up somewhere near his chest during the roll.

Vetiver curled into the space between them.

Dean’s scent glands prickled at his wrists and throat. Mint lemonade lifted, bright and sharp-edged, tangling with Arion’s musk until the air in the bedroom tasted like something you could drink.

Arion inhaled slowly above him.

His eyes, still heavy-lidded with sleep, dropped to Dean’s exposed throat.

”You smell like you’ve been awake longer than five minutes.”

Dean’s hips shifted against the mattress. ”My body’s been staging a rebellion since I opened my eyes.”

”Is that what this is?”

Arion’s hand found the hem of Dean’s shirt and pushed it higher. Warm fingers grazed over his ribs, and Dean’s breath stuttered.

”Maybe.”

The word came out thinner than he intended.

Arion’s mouth curved, he lowered his head, and Dean expected a kiss. Braced for it.

Instead, Arion’s lips brushed the hinge of his jaw.

Then lower.

The side of his throat.

Dean’s back arched without his consent.

”Oh, fuck—”

The words broke out of him before he could swallow them. Arion’s mouth opened against his skin, hot and wet, and Dean felt the scrape of teeth. His fingers clawed into Arion’s shoulders, the fabric of the sleep shirt twisting in his grip.

”You’re—” Dean’s voice cracked. ”You’re not playing fair.”

Arion hummed against his throat. ”Neither were you.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at Dean’s face. His pupils had swallowed most of the gold in his irises. The hand on Dean’s ribs slid downward, dragging fabric with it, until his thumb caught the waistband of Dean’s trousers.

”These,” Arion said, ”are in my way.”

Dean made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. ”So remove them.”

”Demanding.”

”You like it.”

Arion didn’t argue.

He sat back on his heels, and Dean watched through half-closed eyes as those hands hooked into the soft black fabric and pulled. Dean lifted his hips to help, and the trousers slid down his thighs, his calves, and then away entirely.

The morning air kissed the slick already smeared across his inner thighs.

Dean watched Arion notice.

The alpha went very, very still.

His nostrils flared, and the vetiver in the room thickened until Dean could feel it coating the back of his tongue.

”You’re soaked,” Arion said.

His voice had dropped.

Dean bit his lower lip and let his legs fall open wider.

”I woke up like this.”

Not entirely true. But close enough.

The moment Arion’s weight had settled over him, Dean’s body had begun producing slick like it was preparing for combat. The inside of his thighs glistened with it, translucent and sweet, and even he could smell himself now.

Arion’s hand closed around Dean’s hip.

”Show me.”

Dean’s stomach clenched. ”Show you what?”

”How you touch yourself when you wake up wet and I’m still sleeping.”

Dean’s face flushed hot.

But his hand was already moving before his brain caught up—sliding down his own stomach, fingers trailing through the fine hair beneath his navel, until they reached the slick-damp skin of his cock. He wrapped his palm around himself with a familiarity that made Arion’s breath hiss.

”Like this,” Dean whispered.

He stroked once.

Slow.

Deliberate.

His hips rolled upward into his own grip, and a moan tumbled out of him before he could stop it. The sound was embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.

Arion watched.

Just... watched.

His jaw was tight, and the muscles in his arms corded where he braced himself above Dean’s body. The tenting of his own trousers was obscene, but he didn’t do anything. He kept his eyes fixed on Dean’s hand, Dean’s cock, and the slick glistening between Dean’s fingers.

”Faster,” Arion said.

Not a command, but Dean’s hand obeyed, speeding up until the wet sounds of it filled the space between them.

His head pressed back into the pillow.

”Fuck—fuck—I need—”

”What do you need?”

Dean’s eyes flew open. He hadn’t realized they’d closed.

Arion was leaning over him again, close enough that Dean could see the tree line scar over the right side of his face. His scent was everywhere now, heavy and dark, and Dean’s mind was almost blank.

”You,” Dean gasped. ”Inside me. Please.”

The word cracked on its way out.

Arion kissed him.

His mouth slanted over Dean’s, tongue pushing past his lips, and Dean tasted himself on Arion’s tongue. He wrapped his legs around Arion’s waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, and the friction of Arion’s still-covered cock against his slick entrance made him sob.

”Oh God—right there—”

Arion’s hips ground forward.

Fabric dragged over sensitive skin.

Dean’s nails raked down Arion’s spine.

”Please,” he heard himself babbling.

The pressure vanished.

Arion shoved his own trousers down just far enough to free himself, and then the hot, blunt head of his cock was pressing against Dean’s hole, and Dean stopped breathing entirely.

”Look at me,” Arion said.

Dean’s eyes met his.

Arion pushed inside.

The stretch was immediate—a deep, full pressure that lit up every nerve in Dean’s body. His mouth opened on a sound that didn’t make it out. Arion kept going, inch by relentless inch, until he was seated to the hilt and Dean’s inner walls were fluttering around him.

Dean’s voice pitched higher with every moan.

Arion withdrew until just the tip remained, then drove back in.

The moan that ripped from Dean’s throat made Arion shudder.

Dean could feel himself clenching, slick dripping down his thighs, the base of his spine tingling with the pending release. His own hand had fallen away from his cock, gripping the sheets instead, and every thrust pushed another sound out of him.

”Don’t stop—don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop...”

Arion didn’t.

His pace increased, and the bedframe creaked beneath them in rhythm, and Dean’s world narrowed to the slide of Arion’s cock, the slap of skin, the wet, obscene noises coming from where they were joined. His scent glands burned. The room smelled like a garden crushed underfoot: sharp mint, bruised lemon, and dark, earthy vetiver.

Dean felt the pressure building.

Not the usual climb toward orgasm. Something sharper. Heavier. A liquid ache that had nothing to do with his cock and everything to do with the spot Arion kept hitting at the end of every stroke.

”Wait—wait—something’s—”

Arion’s rhythm didn’t falter.

”I know,” he said against Dean’s ear. ”Let go.”

Dean did.

His entire body locked tight, a scream caught in his throat, and then...

Gush.

Fluid erupted from him, soaking Arion’s stomach, the sheets beneath them, and the inside of Dean’s own thighs. It was hotter than slick, Dean couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control the way his body kept pulsing and releasing in spasms that seemed endless.

He heard Arion groan.

Arion pulled out, and another gush followed, splashing wetly across his abdomen.

Dean’s chest heaved.

He stared at the ceiling, unseeing, as aftershocks rippled through him.

Then Arion’s voice cut through the fog.

”We’re going again.”

Dean blinked.

”What?”

Arion’s hands found his hips. Flipped him onto his stomach with one single motion. The mattress was drenched beneath Dean’s belly.

”I want to see what happens when I’m behind you,” Arion murmured.

His cock pressed against the swell of Dean’s ass.