“Look at me.” Mac’s voice was rough, graveled with want.
Melvin dragged his gaze back down, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. The quiet certainty was still there, but beneath it, a raw hunger mirrored Mac’s own.
Mac leaned in, his mouth hovering an inch from the head of Melvin’s cock. He could feel the heat radiating from it. He could smell the musk, clean and male, layered over the honey and amber. His tongue darted out, catching the drop of salt-sweet fluid.
A full-body shudder went through Melvin. His fingers tangled in Mac’s hair, not pushing, just holding.
Mac took him in, slow, letting the stretch of his jaw, the weight on his tongue, the overwhelming sense of rightness flood every nerve ending. He worked down, inch by inch, until his nose pressed into the dark curls at the base. He held there, breathing him in, feeling the pulse against his lips.
He began to move. A slow, deep rhythm. No hurry. His hand worked in tandem with his mouth, twisting on the upstroke. The sounds were obscene, wet, sucking pulls, ragged breaths, the creak of the bed as Melvin’s thighs tensed.
Melvin’s grip in his hair tightened. “Mac.” His name was a gasp, a prayer, a command.
Mac hummed in response, the vibration making Melvin curse, his hips lifting off the bed. Mac pressed him back down with a firm hand on his stomach, maintaining the pace. He was everywhere, the taste, the smell, the heat, the building tension in the body beneath him. It felt like claiming. A homecoming.
He felt the change, the coiling tightness in Melvin’s abdomen, the way his cock swelled even fuller in his mouth. The rhythm stuttered. Melvin was close, teetering on the edge, his breath coming in sharp, broken pants.
Mac pulled off, with a final, lingering lick. He looked up, his lips swollen and slick, his own need a painful, throbbing pressure in his jeans. Melvin was wrecked, chest heaving, eyes wild, his cock lying hard and wet against his stomach.
“Not yet,” Mac said, his voice strained. He crawled up Melvin’s body, aligning them, the rough denim of his jeans a harsh contrast against Melvin’s bare thighs. He braced himself above him, caging him in. The tip of his own cock, trapped and aching, pressed against Melvin’s hip. “Not without me.”
Mac’s hands went to his own belt, fingers fumbling for the first time all night. The buckle gave, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. He shoved his jeans and briefs down in one rough push, kicking them off the bed. The cool air hit his heated skin, and then there wasnothing. No fabric. No barrier. Just his bare skin against Melvin’s, his aching cock pressed flush to Melvin’s hip.
A shuddering breath left him. The full, shocking contact was a live wire up his spine. Skin to skin at last. Every nerve ending lit with the rightness of it.
Melvin’s arms came around him, pulling him down until Mac’s full weight settled on top of him. The solid heat of Melvin’s body beneath him, the way their legs tangled, the perfect alignment of chest to chest, hip to hip, it was an answer to a question he’d been carrying for years.
Mac buried his face in the curve of Melvin’s neck, breathing in honey and amber until the scent settled deep in his lungs. The warmth of Melvin’s skin beneath his mouth stirred something older and deeper than thought, a quiet instinct that rose from the part of him he kept leashed.
For a fleeting moment the wolf stirred with it, drawn by closeness and certainty, a possessive urge that whispered of marking, of claiming what was already his. The thought came sharp and undeniable, not hunger, not dominance, but belonging, and he held it carefully, aware of the weight it carried.
Mac pressed a slower breath into Melvin’s skin instead, letting the feeling settle into something steadier, something chosen rather than instinctive, and tightened his arms around him just a little more.
“Mel,” he breathed against his skin, the name drawn out of him like something uncovered rather than spoken, intimate in a way rank and distance and caution had never allowed, as if speaking it marked a crossing he couldn’t retreat from and no longer wanted to, his mouth still resting warm against the curve of Melvin’s neck.
Melvin’s hand slid down the knotted line of Mac’s spine, over the swell of his ass, fingers spreading to grip. The hold was possessive, grounding. An anchor in the storm of sensation.
Mac rocked his hips, a slow, grinding roll. The slide of his cock against Melvin’s hip was rough, delicious friction. Pre-come smeared between them, slick and hot. He did it again, chasing the feeling, his breath catching in his throat.
Melvin’s other hand came up, fingers threading into Mac’s hair, not guiding, just holding. His hips rose to meet the next roll, a silent, perfect counter-rhythm.
The pace built, not in speed, but in pressure. A deep, relentless tide. Mac could feel the sweat starting to gather between their pressed chests, the slide of skin on skin becoming smoother, wetter. The room filled with the sound of their breathing, ragged, synchronized, and the soft, wet sound of friction.
Mac lifted his head, needing to see. Melvin’s eyes were open, dark and fixed on him. The quiet certainty was still there, but it was molten now, burned through with a hunger that mirrored the ache in Mac’s gut.
He lowered his mouth to Melvin’s, kissing him deep and dirty, all tongue and shared breath. He could taste himself on Melvin’s lips, the salt-sweet trace of where his mouth had been.
Melvin kissed back with a focused intensity, his hips never stopping their slow, upward thrusts. The dual sensations, the kiss, the grind, threatened to unravel Mac too fast.
He broke the kiss, panting. “Need more.”
He shifted, sliding down Melvin’s body just enough to get his hand between them. He wrapped his fingers around both of their cocks, hisown and Melvin’s, pressing them together. The fit was perfect, thick and hot and almost too much.
Melvin groaned, a raw, unfiltered sound that went straight to Mac’s core. His head tipped back, tendons standing out in his neck.
Mac began to stroke, a tight, twisting glide. The pre-come from both of them made the slide effortless, a slick, obscene rhythm. He watched, mesmerized, as his fist moved over their joined flesh, the heads rubbing together with every pass.
“Look at me,” Melvin said, his voice a rough scrape.
