Chapter 582: Bedroom

The bedroom door clicked shut behind them, and Arion turned.

Dean saw that particular stillness in his husband’s shoulders, the way his dark-gold eyes had gone half-lidded and watchful. The look Arion wore when he’d decided something and was simply waiting for the world to catch up.

"You planned this," Dean said.

Arion’s expression didn’t change. He reached for the cuff of his sleeve and began rolling it slowly.

"I planned nothing."

"You’re doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look like you’re about to—"

Vetiver hit him.

Not the lingering trace Arion carried daily—the warm, earthy note that clung to his skin and clothes and the pillows Dean pressed his face into when Arion left early for meetings.

This was deliberate.

A flood of it, concentrated and rising from Arion’s wrists and throat as he stood there rolling his other sleeve, the scent curling through the bedroom like smoke finding its way under a door.

Dean’s mouth went dry.

His fingers tightened on the doorframe.

"You..." He swallowed. "That’s cheating."

Arion tilted his head, and a thin, sharp smile formed, one that barely moved his lips and somehow communicated everything. "You said Seven cleared us."

"I didn’t mean tonight."

"I did."

Dean’s body was already responding, heat crawling up his spine and settling low in his belly. His own scent would be shifting, sweetening, the first blush of pre-heat bleeding into the air between them. Arion’s nostrils flared.

"Come here," Arion said.

Dean crossed the room and grabbed him by the collar of his perfectly pressed shirt.

"You absolute menace."

Arion’s smile widened, and then Dean was kissing him—hard, demanding, fingers twisting in expensive fabric while vetiver saturated every breath.

Arion’s hands found his hips, unhurried even as Dean bit at his lower lip and pressed close enough to feel the long line of him through their clothes.

When they broke apart, both breathing faster, Arion’s composure had cracked at the edges. His pupils were blown wide, dark swallowing gold.

"I want you on the bed," Dean said.

"Bossy."

"I learned from the best."

Arion let himself be pushed backward, let Dean strip his shirt open with impatient fingers and yank it down his arms. A scar ran pale across his ribs, and Dean traced it with his thumb before leaning in to press his mouth to the gland at Arion’s throat. The scent there was thickest, vetiver and something underneath it, musk and heat, the sigma signature that made Dean’s knees feel unreliable.

Arion’s breath left him in a rush.

Dean shoved him onto the mattress.

For a moment he simply looked. Arion on his back, dark hair spreading across the pillow, chest rising and falling, the thick curve of his cock visibly straining against his trousers. His arms were still half-caught in his ruined shirt, muscles flexing as he shifted.

"Let me see you," Dean said.

Arion’s eyes gleamed. "Then look."

Dean stripped out of his own clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. The air was cool on his skin, but his body ran hot now, blood rushing to the surface, nipples tightening as he climbed onto the bed and straddled Arion’s thighs.

He unbuttoned Arion’s trousers.

The cock that sprang free was thick, flushed dark rose at the head, shaft curving slightly upward with veins prominent along its length. Dean wrapped his fingers around it and felt the heat pulse against his palm, the skin like warm velvet over iron.

"Dean."

"Not yet."

He slid down Arion’s body, settling between his legs, and took him into his mouth.

Arion’s hips jerked. Dean flattened his tongue against the underside and dragged upward, tasting salt and skin, feeling the vein that ran the length of him. The head was smooth, slippery with Dean’s spit, and when Dean sucked hard at the ridge beneath the crown, Arion made a sound like he’d been punched.

"Fuck!"

Dean pulled off, breathing hard. "Say it again."

"You’re going to kill me."

"That’s not what I want to hear."

Arion’s fingers laced into Dean’s hair, not pushing, just holding. "I want—" He broke off, chest heaving.

"You want what?"

"You. Please."

Dean crawled up his body and kissed him again, and Arion flipped them, pulling his arms free of the shirt and pinning Dean beneath him in one motion. Vetiver washed over Dean’s face, his throat, and slick pulsed between his thighs in response.

Arion’s hand slid down.

Dean felt fingers part the swollen lips of his hole, felt slick coating the pads of Arion’s fingers, heard the soft, obscene sound it made. His hips tilted up despite himself, the ache in his belly sharpening into something unbearable.

"You’re drenched," Arion murmured. Two fingers slid inside, curling, stretching him open with a slow, unbearable pressure. "Did the pheromones do this?"

"Shut up..."

Arion’s thumb pressed flat and circled the loosening muscle.

Dean’s back arched off the mattress. "Arion!"

"Yes?"

"I need—"

He couldn’t finish.

Arion pulled his fingers out and positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against Dean’s entrance.

"Look at me," Arion said.

Dean opened his eyes.

The first push stole both their breath.

Arion went slowly, letting Dean feel every inch spread him open, the walls of his hole stretching around his dick. Arion’s jaw was tight, teeth clenched, and his pelvis was flush with Dean’s by the time he finally bottomed out.

Dean could feel everything, the pulse of Arion’s cock, the way his inner walls clenched and fluttered around him, the pressure deep in his belly where the head pressed against something soft and resisting.

"Move," Dean gasped.

Arion pulled back, then thrust.

The drag of his cock along Dean’s walls was almost too much, friction and slick and the way his body gripped and released like it never wanted to let go.

Arion’s hips found a rhythm through deep, measured strokes that bottomed out with a soft slap of skin, and Dean’s hole made wet sounds around each thrust. Arion’s balls, heavy and warm, swung against the curve of Dean’s ass.

"Harder—"

Arion gave him harder. The head of Arion’s cock pounded harder against that soft, resisting place inside Dean, striking it again and again. Dean felt his stomach clench, felt something shift.

"That’s it," Arion said, voice ragged. "Open."

The pressure built.

And then the head of his cock slipped through.

Dean screamed. His entire body locked around the sensation of Arion’s cock having tunneled through the tight, coin-sized opening of his cervix and was now lodged inside him in a way that made his vision go white at the edges. His stomach bulged faintly.

"Arion—"

"I know." Arion was shaking, holding himself still with obvious effort. "I know. Breathe."

Dean tried his best.

The pressure was immense, not necessarily pain, but fullness beyond anything he’d experienced, his cervix clenched around the shaft, fluttering and yielding. He could feel it in his throat, in his lungs, in his teeth.

"Look at me," Arion said again.

Dean met his eyes.

And Arion began to move again.