Not the way I will take her apart tomorrow—not the full obliteration the heat makes possible—but real, clenching hard around the head of my cock, her whole body shaking, a long broken sound rising out of her that echoes in the study. I feel it through my shaft: the flutter and clench and flood of her, her slick pouring around the head of me, her pulse rapid and desperate where she grips the desk. My balls pull in tight. Both cocks throb with it. I stay completely still and breathe her in and let her feel every second of coming on just the head of me with nothing else.
I let her come all the way down.
Then I pull out.
The sound she makes—the specific bereft note of it, her body registering the loss before her mind catches up—I intend to remember for a long time. I step back and let the cold air reach her, the pre-heat cresting with nowhere to go. Her hands are flat on the desk. She is breathing in ragged pulls, flushed from her hairline to the open back of her bodice, still shaking slightly.
"Turn around," I say. "Come here."
I sit in the chair by the fire. She turns from the desk and sees me—both cocks out and hard in the firelight, the upper slick with her, the lower aching and untouched, my balls drawn full and heavy—and she goes very still. Her lips part. Her eyes move over me and she forgets, briefly, to look away.
There it is. The look underneath the look, the one she can't cover. Fury and want and the pre-heat making war with the professional face and the professional face losing by a considerable margin.
I hold out my hand.
She looks at it. She looks at me. Then she crosses the room and takes it, and I pull her down into my lap—facing out, her back to my chest, her legs arranged over my thighs because I put them there and she doesn't stop me. Both cocks press against the backs of her bare thighs with nothing between us, and the sound she makes is very small and very genuine.
I turn her head with my hand at her jaw and kiss her.
Deep and slow. She gasps into my mouth and her hands come up to grip my forearms—and then she kisses me back. Before she decides to. Because her body has already decided, and her body is winning everything today. She tastes of the cold morning air and the heat building in her and something specific and hers, and I kiss her until the grip of her hands loosens into something else.
I pull back.
"Give me your hand," I say, against her mouth.
"What—"
I take her hand and bring it down, wrap her fingers around the lower cock. It is thick—thicker than the upper, straight where the upper curves, and when I am this hard the weight of it pulls—and she cannot close her hand around it. I feel her try. Feel her adjust, her fingers finding the underside, pressing in, and the sensation goes straight through the root of both shafts at once and I breathe through it slowly.
The sound she makes—shocked and wanting and furious with herself—is one I haven't heard from her before. Her fingers tighten around the lower shaft before she's decided to tighten them.
"Both hands," I say.
"I'm not going to?—"
"Both hands, Miss Merris."
Her second hand comes down. I wrap my own fist around the upper cock and start moving, and there is her warmth on thelower shaft, her pulse beating against it, and my hand slick with her from the desk on the upper, and every stroke pulls sensation through the shared root of both at once. The upper curving into my grip, flushed and tight. The lower throbbing in her palms beneath it. The feeling of both together, with her hands on one of them, is categorically different from one month of managing this alone and considerably better. My balls are already drawing in. I have not been at this for thirty seconds.
I press her back against my chest and put my mouth on her neck.
"Tighten your grip."
She does. The pre-heat moving her hands before she decides to, and I feel the exact moment she realises what she's done—the small spike of self-loathing, the furious pause—and I drag my teeth along her throat and her hands tighten further and the lower cock throbs hard against her palms and she makes a sound herself, low and involuntary, that she immediately hates.
I work faster. Her slick on my fist makes every stroke filthy and easy, and I am hard enough that each one aches, my balls full and tight, the specific weight of one month of wanting her right there beneath my hands—her in my lap, her pulse in my lower shaft, her slick on the upper, both shafts aching and the thought of tomorrow already arriving before today is finished.
Tomorrow I will spend inside her.
Both cocks. Both knots. Her unable to move and shaking and taking all of it.
"The Merris line," I say, against her throat. "No omega blood." I bite down lightly and feel her gasp and her hands tighten. "And here you are. Soaked. Both hands on my cock and tightening your grip when I tell you to." I press my lips to the line of her jaw. "Almost as if something about you doesn't match the file."
"Don't—" Her voice is breaking. "Don't?—"
"Don't what?"
She doesn't answer. Her head tips back against my shoulder. Her hands are moving now—small involuntary strokes, up and down the lower shaft, the pre-heat running her—and I say nothing, I work my fist faster and feel everything gathering at the root of both cocks at once, the specific pulling weight of it.
