Page 39 of Atlas and the Traitor

Robin met him halfway, beside the table Atlas had leaned a hip against. “I didn’t love seeing another man’s hands on my mate.”

Atlas’s eyes flared, as if he didn’t expect Robin to put the word to their connection. But then his mossy irises turned a darker shade of green, like the forest just before a summer storm, like maybematewasn’t a bad thing at all. He pushed off the table, narrowing the space between them, and when he spoke, voice dangerously low, the snap of his order—“Take the flannel off”—went straight to Robin’s dick. “And the undershirt.”

He didn’t hesitate to pull them both off over his head, even as part of him railed at how fast Atlas had turned the tables. A bigger part of him didn’t give a damn, loved it even. Loved Atlas’s hands on him too, the warlock gliding them up his front as he pressed close behind him. “I didn’t love seeing another man’s dick rutting against what’s mine either. Or you rutting back.”

“I was improvising,” Robin said, parroting Atlas’s words, then lifting his ass to rut against his mate’s cock.

Atlas clasped his hip, holding him close as he rolled back. “I didn’t need to know you could dance.”

“I was rusty.”

He nipped the back of his shoulder. “You were sexy as hell, and no one in that club could take their eyes off you.”

Robin glanced over his shoulder. “Including you?”

“Including me.” Atlas lifted his gaze, and the pure heat staring up at Robin was the final straw.

Using his speed, he spun and shoved Atlas against the nearest post, crowding into his space, gripping his face the way he liked and forcing that burning green gaze back to his. Atlas needed to understand the tightrope he was walking, the razor-thin patience he was playing with. “If you’d come in there in a suit, I might have killed you.”

“He needed?—”

“To know you were free, I got that.”

“And I needed to make sure you kept your promise.” He lifted a hand and snapped, leaving Robin with a handful of green mist and a gut full of boiling anger.

But only for a split second.

The sneaky bastard reappeared on the table, his legs spread and that devastating smirk back in place. “Starting with sucking my cock.”

Bare, underneath the kilt he flipped up.

His erection was as stiff as Robin’s, the head glistening with a bead of precome that Robin descended on. Atlas’s cock wasn’t as fat or as long as his, but it was perfectly proportioned to his compact frame and perfectly sized for Robin’s mouth. He could swirl his tongue around it on each pull to the tip, stretch his mouth all the way around it’s girth as he descended to the root again, his nose buried in the wiry hairs there, Atlas’s real scent intoxicating.

He’d happily spend all day there, Atlas’s cock in his mouth, his nose buried in the first breaths of spring, but the horny warlock had other ideas, his fingers curling in his hair, nails scraping across his scalp. “Fucking suck me off like you mean it.”

For that sass, he got a slap to his thigh and the rough working over he obviously wanted, Robin sliding his hands under his buttocks, using them for leverage, then setting a relentless pace. Fast hard sucks that made Atlas groan, flicks of his tongue under the head that made him curse, the hint of teeth that made him hiss, Robin’s fingers digging into his ass cheeks, then sliding into his crack, making him shout for more. Robin kept him right there on the edge of pleasure and torture.

Half reclined, Atlas’s bare chest strained against the leather harness as he white-knuckled the edge of the table, holding on for dear life. “Now, you maddening coyote, fucking now.”

Given the swell of his own cock still trapped in his jeans, Robin finally conceded, ready to claim the hole he’d been teasing just as mercilessly. A couple fast flicks under the head, then he closed his lips around Atlas’s cock again, took it all the way to the back of his throat, and growled.

Atlas exploded with a shout, filling Robin’s mouth with come. He swallowed some and held the rest in reserve. To do what he’d promised. Straightening, he flipped Atlas over on the table, nothing gentle about it, spread his ass cheeks, nothing gentle there either, and opened his mouth, forcing Atlas’s own come into his hole with his tongue.

“Fuck,” Atlas keened, slapping a hand on the table. “Please, please, please.”

Robin didn’t think he’d ever heard anything as sweet as a blissed-out Atlas Shaw begging.

He begged even louder once Robin shoved his cock in that come-slick hole. For “more,” for “harder,” for Robin to “please, come” so he’d get his tongue back on him. Gripping the harness for leverage, Robin rammed into him as hard and as fast as his body allowed.

He didn’t last long after that, the sight of a writhing, sweaty Atlas, the promise of the scent of them together on his tongue too intoxicating, too erotic to withstand, his climax rushing up and claiming him like the man below him.

And as he buried his face back between Atlas’s pale, round ass cheeks, his tongue swiping over his messy, quivering hole, he realized his imagination had nothing on the real thing.

This was spring, summer, fall, and winter all wrapped into one.

He’d never been more certain this man was his mate, that he’d do anything to keep him for as long as they had on this earth.

Twenty-Eight

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