Chapter 583 Still in the bedroom

Arion moved backward with a slow, grinding drag that stole Dean’s breath. The head of Arion’s cock caught on the ring of his cervix from the inside, that tight muscle clinging to the ridge beneath the crown, and Dean felt every fraction of an inch like it was being carved into him.

Arion pushed forward again. Back into the wet, clenching tightness of his womb, and Dean’s vision fractured at the edges.

His hands twisted in the sheets. His heels dug into the mattress.

"Arion—"

"Shh." Arion’s voice had gone rough, stripped of its usual composure. His hips began to move in short, deep strokes that never fully withdrew, that kept the head of his cock trapped inside Dean’s cervix so that each thrust was a fresh push through that impossibly tight opening. "I know. I know."

Dean’s mouth fell open. Sounds tore from him without permission—raw, punched-out noises that didn’t sound like anything he’d ever made before. His stomach bulged faintly with every forward surge, like a fist pressing up from somewhere deep inside.

The slick between his thighs had turned obscene. It coated Arion’s cock where it disappeared into him, dripped down over the curve of his ass, and soaked the sheets beneath them.

The room smelled of vetiver, sweet lemon, and sex.

Arion’s jaw was clenched so hard the muscle jumped. His pupils had swallowed the gold almost entirely. He looked ruined. He looked like a man holding onto control by his fingernails.

"You feel..." He broke off, head dropping forward, dark hair falling across his forehead. "Fuck, Dean."

"Don’t stop."

"I’m not—" A deep thrust cut him off, and Arion’s eyes rolled back for half a second before he caught himself. "I’m not stopping."

He shifted his weight, got his knees under him better, and the angle changed. Dean’s back arched off the mattress. His thighs spread wider, knees falling open, and Arion took the invitation by hooking one of Dean’s legs over his elbow and drove in deeper, harder. The slap of skin against skin echoed off the bedroom walls.

"Right there," Dean gasped. "Gods, right..."

Arion gave him right there.

Over and over he battered through the tight opening, and Dean’s hole gripped and fluttered around the shaft like it was trying to milk him dry.

The sounds were unspeakably wet. Lewd.

The head of Arion’s cock dragged along the walls of his womb, and Dean could feel the curve, the ridge of the corona, the thick vein that ran along the underside.

His nipples were pebbled tight, aching where they brushed against Arion’s chest. His cock left wet smears across Arion’s belly every time they came together. Arion’s balls, heavy and drawn up, slapped against the underside of Dean’s ass with each thrust.

"You’re going to come," Arion said.

Dean shook his head, then nodded, then made a sound that was neither yes nor no.

Arion got a hand between them. His fingers found Dean’s cock, wrapped around it, and started stripping it in time with his thrusts, palm dragging over the sensitive head on every upstroke.

"Please..."

"Please what?"

"Please don’t stop, please don’t stop, please..."

Dean was beyond shame. His entire world had narrowed to the stretch of his cervix around Arion’s cock, the wet clutch of his own walls, the relentless friction of that hand.

Arion’s rhythm stuttered. His teeth clenched. His thrusts turned erratic, more grinding than stroking, like he was trying to bury himself deeper.

"Dean." His voice cracked on the syllable. "I’m going to—"

"Gods, yes, inside, fill me up, please!"

Arion’s hips slammed forward one last time and stayed there. Dean felt the first pulse deep in his womb, a hot, sudden bloom of pressure that made his entire body seize. Arion was coming. Coming inside him, inside his womb, and the sensation of it, the wet heat flooding that sealed-off chamber, pushed Dean over the edge with him.

His orgasm ripped through him like a second heartbeat. His hole clenched around Arion’s shaft in rhythmic waves, milking, squeezing, pulling every drop deeper into his body. His cock twitched in Arion’s grip and released across his own stomach, pooling in the dip of his navel and dripping down his ribs.

Dean couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. His vision had gone white and stayed there, and distantly he was aware of Arion collapsing over him, of their sweat-slick chests pressing together, of the way Arion’s cock was still buried to the hilt, still locked inside.

The afterclench was almost too much. Every tiny flutter of his inner walls sent a fresh surge of oversensitivity through him, made him twitch and whimper against Arion’s throat.

"Shh," Arion breathed again. His hand had gone slack around Dean’s cock, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t move. "I’ve got you."

Dean’s heart was still hammering. He could feel the pulse of it in his ass, his thighs, the tips of his fingers. He could feel, gods, he could feel Arion’s cock twitching inside his womb, a second, smaller pulse that made fresh slick trickle out around the knot.

"You came inside," Dean managed.

Arion lifted his head. His eyes were half-lidded, dazed, that gold dark with something soft and dangerous.

"You asked me to."

"I know."

"Do you regret it?"

Dean looked at him. Looked at the flushed cheeks, the sweat-damp hair, the ruined mouth.

"Not for a single second."

Arion’s expression flickered, and a moment later he was kissing Dean, slow and deep, with his cock still buried in the deepest part of him, and Dean kissed him back with everything he had.

When they finally pulled apart, breathing hard, Dean’s hips shifted instinctively. Arion inhaled sharply.

"Careful."

"You’re still sensitive." Arion’s voice had gone wry. "I could feel you clenching around me."

"Complaining?"

"Never."

Dean let his legs fall open wider, let the weight of Arion’s body settle more firmly between his thighs. The fullness was still there, that impossible stretch, that tight ring of muscle locked around the base of Arion’s cock.

"Then stay," Dean murmured. "A little longer."

Arion’s hand found his hip. Squeezed.

"As long as you want."