Quin pressed a few fingers to Kit’s hole, and if Kit’d been any more coherent at that moment, he might have been horrified at the ease with which they slid inside.
“Daddy!” he shouted, muffling the words into the pillow as Quin’s fingers found his prostate again. Kit squirmed, unable to do anything else as the sensations overwhelmed him in the best of ways.
Kit never would have thought that being splayed out facedown on the bed and speared by Quin’s insistent and unerringly accurate fingers was the way he’d finally go, but he now understood why the French called it le petit mort. At this point, a permanent death by orgasm didn’t seem a bad way to go.
Quin had infinite patience and knew exactly when to keep going and when to hold off, teasing it out longer and making Kit all the more desperate. He no longer knew what kinds of noises he was making…or cared. All he wanted was his final release, the one that was building and building and building and?—
Kit shuddered and cried out as his orgasm spread through his body in a ripple of sparks.
When he was able to take stock of himself once more, he found himself lying in a crumpled heap on the bed, Quin’s hands stroking gently up and down his back in soothing motions. Kit could barely feel his legs. He doubted he’d ever be able to walk again.
“Enough?” Quin asked.
Kit nodded into the pillow. Speech was another thing he’d have to wait to see if he recovered. Language seemed far off at that moment. Except…
“The bed’s wet,” Kit mumbled.
“Yes. That would be your cum.”
Kit giggled into the pillow, finding the concept absurd. But then Quin left the bed, and a whine escaped his throat. He couldn’t be left alone. He would wither and die.
“Shhh, baby boy. I’m just going to get rid of the towel and fetch a washcloth,” Quin soothed, resting a hand on the nape of Kit’s neck.
“I’mfine,” Kit said in a wobbly voice. He was pretty sure he might be crying.
Quin used his hold on his neck to turn Kit. “There you are,” he said.
Kit blinked, and a bloody tear slid from one eye and soaked into the pillow. Kit’s crying would ruin it, just as he ruined everything else. Worry crashed across Quin’s face, and Kit felt even more wretched.
“Hey, hey,” Quin said, cupping Kit’s face. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere if you don’t want me to.”
Kit nuzzled into Quin’s hand before he had the wherewithal to realise what he was doing. Great. Now Quin had him acting like a lovesick puppy. Even with that terrible knowledge, he didn’t push Quin away. Instead, he just closed his eyes and let the touch ground him.
“You with me, Kit?” Quin asked after a few moments.
Kit made a vague affirmative sound.
“Can I go to get stuff to clean you up? I’ll only be a second.”
Kit opened his eyes, meeting Quin’s gaze. He managed a smile. “A whole second?”
“How about you give me sixty seconds?”
Kit pouted. Okay, so the towel was sticky, and there was nothing worse than having to pick dried flakes of cum off yourself, but Quin being gone for an entire minute just felt like Far Too Long.
“Thirty seconds,” he proposed.
“Kit…”
“You have werewolf speed.”
Quin shook his head, laughing. “Fine then. Half a minute it is.”
Kit smiled to himself. He was great at winning arguments. Quin hurried to get the washcloth and, as promised, was only gone for twenty-six seconds. Kit counted each one. After cleaning Kit up—the oil required a bit of rubbing that had his cock making a half-hearted attempt to rally for another round—Quin took the towel away and let Kit settle under the covers. He was now glad of Quin’s foresight with the towel, as he didn’t want to stand around waiting for Quin to change the sheets. It was bad enough he’d destroyed the pillowcase.
Quin’s big arms soon encased Kit, no part of their bodies not touching. It was only then that something occurred to Kit. “You didn’t come.”
Quin’s breath of laughter tickled the hair at the back of Kit’s head. “No, I didn’t. I don’t need to—that was what I wanted.”
