I laugh. Quietly, privately—not at her, exactly, but at the situation, at myself, at the specific pleasure of finding something in six centuries that still surprises me.
“One month," I say, when she releases my fingers, "and she bites." I consider my hand briefly. "Noted."
I hold her gaze and press her palm flat against the upper shaft, over the bead of silver.
"Bend over the desk," I say, "or tell me what you want instead."
The pre-heat is written all over her—flushed from her hairline to her throat, thighs soaked, her scent so sharp in the warm room it sits at the back of my tongue. She is fighting with everything she has left. She is losing. We both know it.
She turns and bends over the desk.
I take my time. I push her skirts up and smooth my palms up the backs of her thighs, feeling her shaking under my hands—a fine continuous tremble, her whole body at this register—and pull her underthings aside.
The sight of her makes my balls draw in.
Slick and open and swollen, flushed deep and wet, more slick pooling as I look at her and breathe her in and feel both cocks pulse with the specific, heavy urgency of one month of patience ending. I want to push into her right now—the wanting is total and warm and present, filling up the space behind my ribs—and I don't. I have been patient this long. I can be patient a little longer.
I press the head of the upper cock to her entrance. Just the head—the stretch of it, the cold, the vibration starting low—and I hold there without pushing in and listen.
"Please." Into the desk. She couldn't stop it.
"Please what?" I press forward a fraction, just enough that she feels the head seat. The slick heat of her right there, just around the tip, and my balls pulling tight with it. "Please more? Please stop?" I push another fraction. "Please fuck you?"
"Please." Just the word, with everything underneath it packed in and pressed down.
"Ask properly."
Her hips strain back. I hold them still and wait. She is shaking—a fine full-body tremor—and the sounds she's making are small and bitten and furious, and I feel each one at the base of my shaft.
"Please." Barely audible. Each syllable furious. "Please fuck me."
I press in an inch.
One inch—the upper cock seated just past her entrance, the stretch and the cold and the vibration at base frequency—and I stop. I feel her. She is extraordinary: hot and slick and clenching around just the head of me, her body trying to draw me deeper while her hands grip the desk edge and her jaw is tight with the effort of not asking again. A bead of silver wells at the tip of me, inside her. I feel it and breathe.
She is going to feel so full when I take her properly.
The thought arrives with complete clarity. Both cocks, both knots, her split open and shaking with nowhere to go—I have been building toward this for one month and the reality of her clenched tight around one inch of me is better than the planning of it in every particular. Her slick coats the head of the upper shaft, running warm over my skin, and I want to push in until my hips are flush against her and feel her body struggle to accommodate all of it. I don't.
"Breathe," I say, against the back of her neck.
"Please—" Ragged. Her hips straining back against my hands.
"I know." I reach around instead, press my thumb where she needs it, work slow circles. "Tell me what you feel."
"I can't?—"
"Tell me."
"You're—" A whimper, bitten back. "You're cold. Inside. And the vibration?—"
"Yes." I press my thumb harder and feel her clench tight around the head of me. My balls draw in. "And when I fill you properly—both cocks—you'll feel the stretch everywhere. You won't be able to think past it."
"Stop—"
"The knot," I say, pleasant and quiet against her ear, thumb still moving. "Mist Court. It shifts. Fills every space. You won't be able to move and you won't want to."
She comes apart.