Page 82 of That Defining Moment

Dane held on. “It really is good to see you,” he said, and the warmth in his voice was genuine. “You look happy, and I’m glad for that. I mean it.”

“I am,” Lysander said, and let go.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Lysander came through the front door and walked straight into his alpha. He pressed his face into Hamish’s chest and went heavy, his whole body surrendering to gravity at once, and Hamish caught him with one arm around his waist.

Hamish kicked the door shut and held him in the hallway.

He didn’t ask how it went. The answer was in the boneless drape of limbs that had spent the afternoon held rigid, the way his fingers curled into the back of Hamish’s shirt and stayed there. Lysander had done the hard part on his own, and now he needed help getting past it.

Hamish walked him upstairs with an arm still around him, Lysander’s feet finding the steps on instinct while the rest of him leaned into Hamish’s side. The bedroom door closed behind them, and Lysander sat on the edge of the mattress and looked up at him.

“Come here, alpha,” Lysander said.

Hamish crouched between Lysander’s knees, and Lysander’s hands found his face, his fingertips scratching through his beard, then exploring the rest of his face like he was checking that all the familiar pieces of him were still where he’d left them. Then Lysander kissed his cheek.

His omega’s scent rose around them both, thick and syrupy, the warm, ripe sweetness that Hamish had learned to read as an invitation. This was the scent that meant Lysander wanted to be held down and covered and reminded whose teeth belonged on his neck. Hamish breathed it in, and beneath it he caught the fleeting scent of another alpha.

It was faint enough that Lysander probably couldn’t smell it on himself anymore, but Hamish’s alpha hindbrain was calibrated to track any encroachment on his omega.

Lysander’s head tipped back, baring his throat and the smooth, unmarked skin over his mating gland.

Hamish drew closer, pressed his mouth to the gland and bit down. He didn’t break skin, but he bore down hard enough that Lysander’s breath caught, his spine arching off the mattress as the pressure settled into the nerve cluster beneath the surface. Hamish held it, his teeth denting the flesh, his tongue flat against Lysander’s skin.

Lysander’s head lolled sideways. Hamish kissed the bite mark and rose, shifting his weight forward and pressing Lysander down into the mattress with the full length of his body. Lysander’s thighs opened around his hips. His joggers were already damp at the front, slick soaking through the cotton.

Lysander’s joggers came down to his thighs and no further, Hamish’s belt buckle hit the floor with a clatter, and then Hamish was pushing into him while his hand found Lysander’s jaw and held it, turning his face so they were breathing the same air.

The tight, wet heat of Lysander’s body yielded around him easily. Lysander’s eyes opened and fixed on Hamish’s face, glassy and dark.

“There’s my omega…” Hamish murmured, and began to move.

He kept his thrusts slow and deep, his weight bearing down on the omega through his chest and his forearms while Lysander’s legs locked around him and his heels dug into the backs of Hamish’s thighs. The bedframe shifted against the wall with a rhythmic thud that neither of them cared about, and Lysander’s fingers found Hamish’s hair and held on.

Every thrust drove Dane out of Lysander’s mind and out of the room, until all that mattered was the two of them: the omega spread out beneath his alpha, taking everything he gave.

Lysander came first, clenching hard enough around Hamish’s cock that his own orgasm followed seconds later, his knot swelling and locking them together. He pressed his forehead against Lysander’s collarbone and breathed, his heart still going hard against Lysander’s ribs, while Lysander’s fingers combed through his hair in slow, absent passes.

“Hamish,” Lysander said, into the top of his head.

“Mm.”

“You’re very heavy.”

“I know.”

Lysander’s chest vibrated with laughter, his body tightening around Hamish’s knot until they both groaned. Hamish lifted himself just enough to pull his glasses off and drop them blindly onto the bedside table, where they landed with a clack.

He settled back down, one arm beneath Lysander’s shoulders, his nose buried in the crook of his neck where the bite mark was already darkening into a bruise.

Lysander’s hips shifted beneath him in a deliberate grinding movement that tightened the pressure around the knot. Then again, with more purpose, a rhythmic clench and drag that worked his inner muscles in a practised sequence, milking Hamish’s cock in waves that drew another pulse of come out of him, then another, the knot softening incrementally with each one.

Hamish knew the technique for what it was. Lysander had told him about his ‘milking trick’ once, late at night in the Brunswick East cottage. It was a move he’d perfected across hundreds of hours of filmed content, because every minute an alpha spent locked inside him was a minute the next alpha couldn’t start, and Dane ran his shoots on a tight schedule. “Feels really good for them, and gets them out of me more quickly,” he’d laughed.

His hands settled on Lysander’s hips and held them still.

“Don’t,” Hamish said. “There’s no rush. I could stay locked in you for the rest of the day.”