Chapter 112: Chapter 112: Desperation [Win-Win]

Arion’s control slipped for a fraction of a second. A low, possessive growl ripped from his chest, and the hand on Dean’s cock tightened. “You taste like desperation,” Arion murmured around him, the words muffled but vibrating intensely.

He dove back down, his mouth voracious and hungry. He bobbed his head, faster now, his lips a tight, slick ring of fire, his tongue pressing down relentlessly. One of his hands left Dean’s hip and cupped his balls, rolling them gently, then applying a firm, perfect pressure that made white light explode behind Dean’s eyelids.

The coil in Dean’s gut wound tighter and tighter, a spring of pure sensation ready to snap. He could feel a hot, urgent pressure building up at the base of his spine. His breaths came in short, sharp gasps. “I’m close… I’m so close, Arion, please…”

Arion’s only response was to suck harder, to take him deeper, his throat opening in a way that felt like heaven. His eyes were squeezed shut now, his brow furrowed in concentration, utterly lost in the act of giving pleasure. The sight of him, this powerful, controlled alpha brought to his knees by Dean’s cock, was the final straw.

The orgasm tore through him with a violence that stole his voice, his sight, and his very thought. A silent scream locked in his throat as his hips bucked helplessly against Arion’s hold.

Arion didn’t flinch. He held Dean down and took it, his throat working as the first hot, pulsing jet hit. Dean felt every throb, every spasm, amplified by the wet, sucking heat of Arion’s mouth. He felt the swallow, a deliberate, enticing contraction, followed by another as Arion drank him down, milking him with mouth pulls until Dean was sobbing from overstimulation and trembling with aftershocks.

Finally, mercifully, Arion released him, sliding off with a final, tender lick that made Dean jerk. He rested his forehead against Dean’s trembling thigh, his own breathing ragged. He looked up, his lips swollen and shiny, his eyes dark with a deep satisfaction that made Dean’s exhausted body stir again.

“A monk,” Arion said, his voice wrecked and thick. He shook his head slowly, a faint, dazed smile on his face. “You really are a menace.”

Dean huffed breathlessly. “Look who’s talking.” He moved his foot and pressed onto Arion’s bulge.

Arion’s eyes rolled back for a moment before his head fell back against the mattress beside Dean’s hip. A ragged, broken sound tore from his throat, a mix of a groan and a laugh. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, his voice wrecked.

He moved his hips in a deliberate, grinding motion, pressing his erection harder against Dean’s sole. The friction was maddening, a slow, torturous drag that Arion welcomed with a shudder. He looked up at Dean, his lips swollen and glistening, his eyes dark and dilated, swimming with a mix of utter surrender and renewed hunger.

“Is that it?” Arion murmured, his breath hitching as he moved again, seeking the pressure. “After all that… you’re going to finish me off with your foot?”

Dean watched him, his own body humming with the aftershocks of his release, and a strange, powerful calm fell over him. He flexed his foot, applying deliberate pressure and rolling his sole across the thick length. “I’m not finishing you,” Dean said, his voice rough but steady. “I’m helping you. There’s a difference.”

Arion’s eyes snapped open, golden and burning. “Helping,” he echoed, the word dripping with disbelief and raw need.

“You’re still dressed,” Dean pointed out, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He pushed himself up on his elbows, the movement making Arion shiver as the angle of pressure changed. “That seems… inefficient.”

For a long moment, they just stared at each other, the air thick with vetiver and the sweet, tangy scent of Dean’s satisfaction.

Slowly, never breaking eye contact, Dean nodded toward Arion’s waistband. “Take them off.”

Arion stared at him for a long, suspended moment. The air between them crackled, the silence loud enough to deafen. Then, a low, ragged laugh escaped his throat, vibrating through his chest and rattling Dean’s foot where it still pressed against him.

“You are absolutely insatiable,” Arion whispered, his voice barely a sound. “You come once, and now you want to play games?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands moved to the waistband of his sleep pants, his movements fluid and unhurried, removing the last barrier between them. He drew the fabric down, his muscles shifting and bunching beneath his skin as he leaned forward, shedding the clothes until they pooled around his ankles.

He kicked them away, fully naked from the waist down. His erection was prominent, thick, and flushed, standing firm against his stomach. He looked down at Dean, his eyes dark and burning, a challenge and an invitation all rolled into one.

“Happy now?” Arion asked, his voice rough, thick with need. He reached down and took Dean’s foot, pressing it harder against his aching length.

Dean stilled and looked at the new sight. “Where the heck did you hide this monster?”

“Concentrated,” Arion murmured, a smirk playing on his lips as he shifted his hips, letting the heavy weight rest more fully against Dean’s sole. “Most of it is just dormant. I don’t waste space on unnecessary baggage. It’s all muscle and efficiency.”

Dean let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Dormant. Right. That explains the tent pole in your sleep pants.”

Arion attempted to thrust up, chasing the friction, but Dean’s foot remained a solid anchor. Dean’s heel ball pressed firmly into the sensitive ridge just below the crown, stopping his upward movement and trapping him in a delicious, agonizing suspension. “It’s a survival mechanism.”

“From what? Wrinkling?”

“Oh, it’s for you,” Arion corrected, his voice dropping an octave.

Dean blinked, surprised by the accusation. “Me?”

“You,” Arion confirmed, his gaze fixing on Dean’s face, then drifting lower to his lips. “You have this way of making things… inconvenient. Like now.”

Dean smirked, sitting up a bit more. “Inconvenient for you? I thought you were the big, bad alpha.”

“I am,” Arion growled, shifting his hips so the heavy length rested more heavily against Dean’s foot. “But you have this dangerous habit of poking holes in my defenses.”

Dean didn’t argue. He just flexed his toes, digging the ball of his foot into the sensitive ridge just below the head, watching Arion’s eyes flutter shut and a bead of pre-cum weep from the tip.

“Point taken,” Dean said softly.

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