Page 14 of Lucky or Knot
The way he moved against me, like water, yielding but endlessly resilient…
Except that his cries had risen to an almost pained timbre, and I forced myself to stop.
Everything in the world seemed to freeze for a moment as I bent down over him, lungs laboring, blinking the sweat out of my eyes. His body quivered under my hands, around my cock, which was still buried to the hilt. His sharp sit bones dug into my groin.
“Oh,” he gasped. “Why are you—what’s wrong?”
I stared down at him, the delicate lines of his torso, one outflung arm, the curve of his cheek where the curtain of his hair had parted to give me a glimpse. Something in my chest caught and twanged. Gods, I hoped it wasn’t tenderness. That way lay madness.
But my voice came out a lot gentler, and a lot more breathless, than I wanted as I said, “You know, I don’t have to knot you. I can control it.” If I used every bit of willpower I had, and then some. “We can…notknot, and say we did.” But that wouldn’t work for a fae promise, would it? In a burst of selfless, unwilling inspiration, I added, “You can finish me off with a hand job. If I knot your hand, I’ve still knotted you, right? You can win your bet.”
His shaky little laugh vibrated through my cock, and I had to choke back a groan. The sound of it lodged in that same place in my chest that I’d been trying to ignore. Damn it.
“No,” he said, and then, in a strange reversal of his usual M.O., answered a question I hadn’t asked rather than dodging one I had. “You won’t hurt me. Don’t—worry about me.”
I wanted to believe him, except that he almost sounded like he might be about to cry.
Shit. But people had all kinds of odd reactions during sex, right? And not-quite-people had them, too. Exhibit A: that twinging, twisting not-quite-guilt-or-something under my breastbone.
Nah, you couldn’t ask another dude if he was crying, not even if you were balls-deep in him. Maybeespeciallynot if you were balls-deep in him.
“Okay,” I said. “Then heads up.”
At this point, coming wasn’t going to take me any effort at all. I didn’t need to fuck him hard to get there. Instead, I rocked into him, gazing down, letting the slow, easy friction get me buzzing, the sight of his shiny wet rim stretching and swallowing me up mesmerizing and unbelievably hot, the hottest thing I’d ever seen.
And then there was no turning back, with the pressure forcing its way up my cock, my knot swelling, the spasms that whited out my vision and bowed my spine as I spilled into him in pulse after pulse. Over the sound of my own wildly thudding heartbeat, I could barely hear his cries, and my knot grew more, forcing me to thrust deeper to get it all the way in. The pressure of his insides against the hardness of it wrenched another aftershock out of me.
Knotting had never taken me like this, an irresistible force that blurred my senses, leaving me with nothing but static and the need to collapse down, close my eyes, and get a breath. At the last second, I managed to tip us sideways and tuck him into the cradle of my hips so I didn’t crush him, and then I closed my eyes and tried to drift.
But the panting of his breath hadn’t let up in the slightest, and he kept squirming, the motion massaging my cock and knot, almost too much and too intense. His wriggling brought me back to reality after a moment, and the world rushed back in: the cool air in the room drying the sweat on my skin, the pipes clankingin the wall, a car outside.
Wait a minute, had he…
I closed my eyes, swallowed hard, and focused, forcing my claws back in, and then reached around him.
My hand closed around his cock and balls. They weren’t small, but my broad palm and long fingers encompassed most of what he had.
He’d said no kissing, but the peak of that slim shoulder, skin gleaming with perspiration like dewy flower petals, drew me in like a magnet.
“Come on,” I whispered, and pressed my lips to his skin. My tongue flicked out, and one drop of his sweat beaded on it, heady and delicious. “Come on my knot, sweetness.”
The endearment came out of fucking nowhere, fuck, and I overcompensated, giving his cock and balls a firm squeeze. He convulsed in my arms, legs scissoring, clenched around me hard enough to make me reel dizzily, and spilled all over my hand. With a drawn-out—dammit, a sob, I really couldn’t mistake it for anything else—he slumped and went limp. The scents of tart citrus and honeysuckle rose up around us, mingled with my own sweat and the salty musk of my come.
If his come tasted the way it smelled, no wonder he had to warn guys not to blow him.
With an effort of will that deserved way more credit than anyone was ever going to give me, I resisted lifting my hand to my mouth and sucking it clean. Instead, I massaged his limp cock and his spent balls, because he kept shuddering and clamping down around my knot and making me crazy, and—overstimulated sauce for the goose, thank you very much.
His breath hitched, and I squeezed him again, and his little shiver had me curling around him, all my instincts screaming at me to keep him warm, enclose him, stuff him full, hold him, taste that tempting curve of his neck…
“Stop licking me,” he said, and I froze mid-lick, caught like a kid with my hand in the cookie jar. “It’s for your own good.”
Okay, now I was going to fucking well ask, because he was taking a little bit of nuzzling way too seriously. I hadn’t eaten out his pretty ass, so what the hell more did he want from me?
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
His long, long pause didn’t reassure me in the slightest. If I hadn’t still been deeply knotted in his delicious body, every inch of mine tingling with endorphins and with the pleasure of having his sleek curves and angles pressed up against me, I might’ve been some variety of concerned.
“I don’t like hypotheticals,” he said at last.
