He takesme to the daybed against the workroom wall. The narrow one, surrounded by cipher notes and cross-references and the map with the farmhouse icon still visible at the edge of my sightline. The incongruity of this—Lena alive and east and him undressing me three feet from the map that places her—should be enough to stop me. It isn't. The bond goes warm and open and the claiming marks at my throat pulse under his hands and my body has been making its own arguments for weeks.
He undresses me slowly. His cold hands finding my breasts as the fabric comes away, his thumbs circling my nipples until I inhale sharply. I push his shirt off his shoulders. His chestis cold under my palms and correct—my body has decided this is correct, has been deciding it for weeks, and I have given up fighting what my body decides.
His mouth finds the claiming marks. Both of them, each one different. The third thing moves through me in waves, the thing that is not pain and not pleasure but is always distinctly itself, and I pull him closer by the hair.
"Both," I say. Before he's done anything else.
"Patience," he says.
I am going to hit him.
He uses his mouth on me first—between my thighs, cold tongue, the specific merciless patience of a man who has been doing this for six centuries and has no intention of rushing. I keep my hands in his hair and make sounds that carry off every wall of the workroom and stop managing them. He holds my thighs open. He takes his time. He works the place that dismantles me and when I clench around his tongue he stays right there until I come with my fists in his hair and my back arched.
He makes me come a second time the same way before he moves.
The upper cock cold at my cunt—the vibration starting the moment he presses in—and the stretch of him makes me exhale everything. He enters me slowly, the way he always does, inch by inch, and I feel every fraction of it. The curve of him pressing against the front of my walls. The vibration at the frequency I cannot think through.
"I can still see the map from here," I say, through my teeth.
"Give it a moment," he says, and seats himself fully and holds still.
I stop seeing the map.
He moves. Long, deep strokes, the upper cock dragging against the front of my walls on every withdrawal, and I matchhis rhythm and grip his back and stop being a spy. I have given up pretending this is not my body's choice. The claiming marks warm at my throat, pulsing with his rhythm, my sounds not the spy's sounds.
"Still thinking about the file?" he says.
"No," I say. Truthful.
"Good."
He presses the lower cock to my arse and the sound I make is not professional. The stretch of it—thick and straight and cold alongside the upper already seated—and my back comes completely off the daybed. His hands hold my hips exactly where he wants them.
"Too much—" Reflexive.
"No," he says. Equally reflexive.
He's right, as he is always right about this.
The dual vibration starts—the upper running high and bright, the lower deep and grinding, two different pitches at once—and whatever thought I was still running somewhere below the surface stops. There is nothing left. His cocks inside me, his hands on my hips, his eyes on my face, the bond wide open and carrying everything between us.
He moves. Both cocks at different rhythms. Each thrust drives the air from my lungs. Each withdrawal makes me clench and try to hold him. He doesn't adjust for any of it. He keeps his rhythm and watches my face and I let him watch everything.
I come twice. The second time I am shaking and saying his name and he doesn't stop.
Both vibrations at full pitch, my walls raw and swollen around him in both places at once, each thrust of the upper cock dragging against the front of my walls and the lower grinding full and deep below it, and between them the vibration runs at the frequencies that have already undone me twice and are undoing me again. I am mewling with each stroke, small broken sounds,and I have lost the shame of them. My thighs are shaking. I look up at him.
His jaw is tight. His chest moves hard with each thrust. His eyes are on my face and they are not cold.
"Please," I say. Past thinking. "Please?—"
He doesn't change his rhythm.
"Please." Broken. "The knot. Please?—"
He gives me both.
Both knots swelling together—soft, outward, filling every space that wasn't already filled, pressing against my walls from two directions. I cry out. Cannot move. Don't want to. Every small shift presses them differently into me and I shudder at each one.