I stay on my hands and knees on the cold stone and breathe.
He crouches behind me.
Both hands on my arse—cold palms spreading, feeling the warmth of his release on my skin—and he doesn't hurry. He smooths his hands slowly through it, working it across my skin, down over my thighs, and then down through my pussy, and the sensation of his cold hands and the warmth of his seed together is something I was not prepared for. Not the act—the response: the slick that floods out of me, the surge of want that goes through my whole body when his hands work his seed against my skin, like my body has filed this underhis, claimed, doneand is responding with complete sincerity.
The professional part of me would like to register an objection. The professional part of me is no longer seated at the table.
"There," he says, behind me. Conversational. His thumbs press into the crease of my arse and spread, and the warmth of his release runs down through my pussy, and I moan against the floor. "Look at that."
"Don't—"
"You're absolutely soaked." His thumb presses through my entrance, just the pad of it, and I grip the stone. "My release on your skin and you're wetter than you were." He presses a little harder and I whimper. "Three years in the field, Claire Whitmore." The name deliberate. His thumb circles my entrance, not entering, just the pressure. "Soaking through her underthings because an alpha spent on her arse."
He pushes one finger inside—cold and slow—his palm pressing his seed against me from the outside while his finger works from the inside, and the combination obliterates whatever I was going to say. "You're clenching around my finger." He adds a second and I cry out, muffled against my arm. "There you are."
He works both fingers slowly, his thumb against my clit from the outside, the slick running freely, and I am shaking and gripping the floor and making sounds I cannot stop. My clit is throbbing against his palm with every stroke, everything in me reduced to the sensation of his fingers and his hands and his seed warm on my skin.
"Thirty-five days," he says, his fingers finding the angle and holding it—the specific angle that makes my legs want to close, which they cannot, because he is between them. "My release on your skin is what does it." He sounds genuinely pleased, the way he sounds when the sphere shimmers. "Your body has very clear opinions about who you belong to."
"I don't—" The sentence evaporates. He crooks his fingers, his thumb working in circles against my clit where his seed has pooled warm, and the orgasm hits—sudden and total, cresting on the compound sensation of all of it at once. I shudder through it on my hands and knees on the cold stone floor and the sound I make is nothing any professional would claim.
He holds his fingers still and lets me finish.
When the shaking slows, he withdraws—slow, deliberate, feeling every flutter—and wipes his hand on my ruined skirts.
"Turn around," he says.
I turn around.
He's crouched in front of me, both cocks at eye level. The upper flushed dark and curved, silver cooling along the shaft. The lower cock thick and straight beneath it, heavier, his seed at the base. The smell of him from here—warm and cold at once, court magic underneath—hits me in the throat and fresh slick floods between my thighs. My body is embarrassingly legible.
His expression is the one I have never fully named. Patient and certain and something underneath both.
"Clean them up," he says.
I should refuse. I have a notebook on the sill and three years of training and I am kneeling on a cold stone floor at half past one in the morning because he told me to, and I should refuse.
I lean forward and open my mouth over the head of the upper cock.
The taste lands all at once—cool silver first, faintly metallic, running cold over my tongue even as the flesh beneath it is warm. I run my tongue up the underside of the shaft, working through the release, and he makes a sound above me. Low and controlled. His hand comes into my hair, fingers spreading against my scalp, the weight of his palm settling there without pushing.
I work my way to the base and back, and the cock thickens slightly under my tongue as I go. He feels me feel it. His fingers tighten once.
"Good," he says. Quiet. "All of it."
I take the head back into my mouth and the taste shifts—the silver fading, the warmth of him underneath, something that is just him. I stay longer than I need to. I know it. He knows it. Neither of us says so.
"Now the other," he says.
The lower cock opens my jaw wider immediately—the stretch against the corners of my mouth—and his hand in my hair tightens. He likes that. I can feel him like it. I run my tongue along the underside, tasting the seed concentrated here, heavier and warmer, and work slowly toward the head.
"Look at me," he says.
I look up.
His eyes are on my face. Dark and steady and completely attentive, watching every flicker of expression I can't control from here—my stretched jaw, the flush in my own cheeks, the way my hands have come up to hold the base of both shafts without me deciding to. His thumb traces my jaw where it's working around him, slow and deliberate.
"Claire Whitmore," he says. My name, the way he says everything—certain, like he's owned it longer than he's had permission to use it. "Three years in the field." His fingers curl in my hair. "On your knees in the dark." His thumb presses gently against my stretched jaw. "And your thighs are soaked."