Page 31 of Natural-Born Cullers

“Jack….” This was such a bad place for them to be. He’d already proven that over what he’d just done, but guilt wasn’t hitting, not yet, not over routine, not over Jack’s constant… fucking routine… how he wanted to fuck it out of him, scar into his body just to stop the deep-rooted cattle stupidity over…routine, leave Jack with clipped and bloodied wing on the floor before anyone else turned their head Jack’s way. And yeah, he’d be with Jack in the aftermath, because Jack would be safe then, no other snout able to turn in Jack’s direction and bore deep into him, all his routine obliterated under a bloodied touch.

And Jack was giving him the nod to…

Drip…

Fucking drop.

“Been here so many times before, mukka…. I’m all yours. Always will be.” Jack’s breathing deepened in time with Gray’s. “No safe play. No sanity. Just a limit on time, on how long you need to try and fuck it out of your system. You find peace before Jan comes home, or you walk away frustrated, we clear?”

Gray screwed his eyes shut. “You absolutely sure?” Jack needed to be sure now, because it would be the only time that Gray would listen to any no he gave. Jack had control of the time limit, but what happened during that time… that belonged solely to Gray.

Jack’s link of fingers in his and the deeper breathing that matched Gray’s anchored him. But then it was meant to, just for a moment.

“Seven hours. No more. You find peace, or you walk away. You do… not… touch… Jan.”

Drip…

The most fucking stunning… drop.

Gray kicked Jack’s legs apart, undid his trousers—then fucked into him. Jack grunted, and Gray smothered his mouth, taking every ounce of fight and forcing Jack’s hips into the wall with the brutality.

But penetration was far too easy. Jack had been touching his body in the shower, anticipating, preparing for… handling, all….

Tick…

Fucking tock.

Gray snarled. Usually it wouldn’t bother him with Jack thinking sane play, but… routine… the brand mark it gave off. How it dripped onto his bedroom floor, his halls, outside on the courtyard, ran through onto the road outside the manor, inviting any twisted psychopath to rape into Jack’s skin, into….

Jack was his, no one else’s.

Gray pushed him harder into the wall, forcing his body and hips into it, and Jack cried hurt as his cock was forced to fuck the rough ridges of the wall.

Rough, brutal, all done out in the open, up against a wall….

Jack cried out, and Gray pulled him back in close, his grip on his throat keeping him still as he grabbed his cock. Jack’s tip played angry and hot under Gray’s touch as he leaked precome despite the forced handling, and Gray shifted and twisted his balls. “Fucking whore. Will always get you fucked as one.” The best part of him loved Jack for it, but a deeper part… it hated him so bloody deeply in this moment, wanted to fuck it all out of his system, obliterate how it sent out those signals—always fucking signals that catcalled to anyone off the street—and how Jack wouldn’t ever bloody see it, not with how lost to his head he was, all tick… fucking need to drop.

“Bastard.” Jack fought and twisted, trying to get out of the touch on his cock, deny the whore. Digging a hand harder into his throat, Gray made sure Jack only twisted against how he jacked him off and didn’t stop fucking into him as the heat and need to burn it all out scored deep between Gray’s thighs.

Jack lost the battle and shouted his come in the next breath, and for a moment Gray lost himself to the call, how he fucked Jack up against the wall, how he would always be lost to holding on to Jack back in some alley, pinning him against the wall, feeling him fight against taking it.

Because this… stripped to the core… this was them back in the alleyway when they’d first met. This would always be Gray making him cry out, fight—explain with every twist and turn of his goddamn body why he played with Gray’s head, how Jack didn’t… shouldn’teverbelong in the back alley with him, not with the cattle routine he lived by, and yet here he was—still walking that alley with Gray,playingGray’s way, still…

Drip… fucking drop.

So Jack made a whore of him too, infusing the need to fuck routine out of existence and keep him safe—force Gray into his own routine in order to keep him safe, his way, but it opened them both to being cut open in the crowd reading thecomefuck mesignals. And that twisted Gray back into the deep-rooted rage at being forced to stop… to protect… to open them up to threat.

Jack wasn’t stupid, not like normal cattle: he was just… trapped in the daily routines, in his head. It didn’t give him the luxury of choice like it did with most cattle, and that only angered Gray more, how Jack couldn’t be controlled, the routine wouldn’t ever be fucked out of him, so Gray was caught in a constant vicious cycle right along with Jack. He’d never be able to keep Jack safe for long because Jack would wake up back to it eventually, always lost more to his beautiful mind and routine than anything Gray could put him through. Back to a routine that called everyone in close to touch his skin, to take him from underneath Gray.

Gray cried out, more against the futility of fighting against everything, but as the last traces of come marked Jack’s abs, Jack struggled so badly for breath, and giving a snarl, Gray denied the thickness in his own cock and shoved Jack through into the car port, needing to drive this out of his own head and body, just how much it hurt loving… hating every ounce of Jack’s routine.

He pushed him down over the bonnet of the Mercedes a moment later and took him over it, cheek pressed hard into hot metal as he made damn sure Jack’s body jerked under every goddamn fuck into him.

This wasn’t about consent. It wasn’t about owning Jack’s body, this was about…

Drip…

Fucking drop.

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