Page 6 of That Defining Moment
“Sander, I just cracked your head against —”
“Hamish.” Lysander reached back, grabbed Hamish’s wrist, and pulled his hand off his head and down to his throat instead. “Keep. Going.”
Hamish kept going.
He fucked Lysander, his hand still loosely circling his throat and the other braced on the mattress beside Lysander’s ribs, in deep grinding strokes that had Lysander twisting beneath him and his moans coming out in short, bitten-off bursts. The wet sounds of their bodies meeting filled the room. Lysander was soaked, so much so that his slick made Hamish’s hips slide against the backs of his legs.
He could feel himself getting close, the pressure building at the base of his spine, his knot beginning to swell and catch against Lysander’s hole. Lysander must have felt it too, because he clenched around Hamish deliberately and pushed back hard, taking him deeper.
“Fuck, Sander —”
Lysander came first, shaking apart under Hamish as he turned his face into the pillow and his body drew tight as a wire. Hamish felt him pulse around his cock and that was it, his hips stuttering forward as his knot locked them together.
He collapsed onto Lysander’s back, his mouth against the damp curve of Lysander’s shoulder. Lysander’s hand found his where it rested on the mattress, and their sticky fingers interlaced.
After a while, Hamish kissed the spot on top of Lysander’s head where he’d hit the headboard.
“I really am sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” Lysander replied lazily. “It was nice.”
Hamish rested his forehead against the back of Lysander’s neck and stayed there, knotted inside him, listening to their breathing slow. “Lysander?”
“Hmmm.”
“I’m glad you came to Melbourne.” Hamish tightened his arms around Lysander’s waist and took in a deep lungful of his omega. “I know this sounds mad, because we were really only together for two weeks. But you’ve sent me so many wanking videos since then that I’m kind of obsessed with you.”
Lysander hummed, and shifted against Hamish to test the knot still locked inside him. Hamish’s breath caught at the sensation that was just on the edge of uncomfortable. “I won’t punch him,” Lysander said grandly.
“What?”
“Every time he calls you alpha, I want to punch him in his fucking perfect face.” Lysander’s fingers traced idle patterns on the back of Hamish’s hand. “But I won’t. That’s all I can promise you right now, Hamish.”
Hamish started kneading the tight muscles along the top of Lysander’s shoulders, working his thumbs into the knots beneath his shoulder blades, and Lysander made a noise of approval.
“What’ll it take for you to never use the word ‘cult’ around Cass?”
“Ten backrubs.”
“Five,” Hamish countered.
“Fifteen.”
“Okay then, twenty,” Hamish said.
Lysander chuckled. “You fucking soft touch.”
Hamish let his full weight drop, driving Lysander flat into the mattress, and Lysander’s protest came out as a muffled oof that turned, almost immediately, into a groan of contentment. He was asleep within minutes.
Chapter Four
Lysander was dragged back into consciousness by light that had no business being so aggressive at — he squinted at his mobile — seven forty-three in the morning. The blackout situation in Hamish’s bedroom was dire. A single unlined curtain hung across the window, unable to put up even a token resistance against the Melbourne sun.
Hamish’s side of the bed was empty, the sheets pulled up. The pillow still held the indent of his head, and Lysander pressed his face into it, breathing in the warm alpha scent that clung to the cotton. Sandalwood and eucalyptus that made him want to burrow into the mattress and stay there indefinitely.
He found Hamish in the kitchen, already dressed in a soft navy jumper with the sleeves pushed up, pouring coffee from a French press into a mug that read I’D RATHER BE BROADCASTING. A second mug sat waiting on the counter, and Hamish pushed it towards Lysander without being asked.
Lysander slumped onto a wooden stool at the island and wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the steam curl against his face.
