The second time wouldn’t be slow.
The second time I’d take her hard and fast, both of us desperate, chasing pleasure with single-minded intensity. The ridges would be fully engorged by then, more pronounced, creating texture that borders on overwhelming. Each thrust would drag them across her g-spot, relentless stimulation that would have her coming within minutes.
Her saying my name like a prayer, like a demand.
Those soft curves bouncing with each thrust.
The wet sounds of our bodies meeting, the slick drag of ridged flesh through swollen tissue.
Her clenching around me when she comes, her body trying to milk my cock, the ridges providing exactly the stimulation she needs—catching and releasing with each spasm of her orgasm—
I stroke faster, rougher, my temperature climbing until the shower feels cold by comparison. My free hand fists against the wall, claws fully extended, carving deeper grooves with each gasping breath.
The ridges would lock during her orgasm. It’s what they’re designed for—to swell and catch and hold during those final moments, creating a seal that ensures deep breeding. She’d feel it happening, feel me growing impossibly thicker inside her, the ridges flaring enough that pulling out would be difficult. Uncomfortable.
She’d be trapped on my cock, stuffed full and locked in place while I—
Marking her.
Not with claws—never with claws, too dangerous—but with my scent, my heat, my claim.
Making sure every part of her knows she’s mine.
Biting down on her shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark, enough to satisfy the claiming instinct roaring through my biology. My species has specialized teeth for this, slightly elongated canines designed to grip without tearing. The bite would bruise beautifully on her warm brown skin—proof of ownership, proof of claim.
Her arching into it, wanting it, wanting me.
“Yours. Make me yours.”
Coming inside her, feeling her clench and pulse around my cock, the ridges locked in place keeping every drop of my release deep where it belongs—
The fantasy crystallizes into one image: Dove’s face, flushed and wanting, her eyes dark with pleasure as she says “Cetus, please.”
Release slams through me like an electromagnetic pulse—sudden, overwhelming, devastating. My jaw clenches against the groan trying to escape. Can’t wake Tavia. Can’t let Dove hear what she does to me.
But the markings along my arms, my shoulders, my chest blaze so bright they turn the entire shower gold. My cock pulses in my grip, release spilling across my hand and the tile wall in thick ropes. The ridges are fully swollen, pronounced and flushed dark, locked in the pattern they’d use inside a partner—pulsing with each wave of orgasm like they’re trying to pump seed deeper.
It goes on longer than it should. Lividian males evolved to ensure thorough breeding—multiple pulses of release over thirty to forty-five seconds, each one accompanied by a rhythmic squeeze of the ridges. Enough to guarantee conception during fertile periods.
Wasted here. Washing down the drain instead of filling her.
I ride it out, breathing hard, forehead pressed against cool tile while my body shudders through the aftershocks. The ridges pulse a few more times, gradually softening back to their normal state.
The water washes away the evidence. Doesn’t wash away the need.
Because my body knows—knows—that this was temporary. Insufficient. Not remotely what I actually want.
What I want is impossible. What I want is Dove, soft and willing beneath me, around me, taking every inch of my cock and those specialized ridges and begging for more.
What I want is to hear her discover exactly how good Lividian males can make their partners feel.
What I want is to watch her face when she realizes the ridges aren’t just for sensation—they’re for bonding. For locking together at the moment of climax. For ensuring deep, thorough claiming that leaves no doubt who she belongs to.
What I want is permanence.
And she’s offering me four days.
Heat still radiates from my skin when I finally shut off the water. The markings along my arms and chest continue to pulse—dimmer now, but still visible. Still broadcasting my need to empty quarters.
