A long groan slips out of my lips as I arch into him, my entire body sensitive.
The stretch of his knot locking inside me is the sweetest pain my body has ever made room for. He pulses inside me in long warm spills, his teeth grazing the bite at my throat, his hand still firm at my mouth as I sob through the second orgasm I didn't know was coming, and the bond between us roars white-bright and full and I can feel him in it the way you feel sunlight on a closed eyelid.
He goes still. He stays still. His mouth presses into the bite mark and stays.
"There," he murmurs. "There. There you are. There's my boy."
I am crying. I am laughing. I do not know how to be a person right now. He uncovers my mouth slowly, replaces his palm with his thumb at my lower lip, and I press my mouth to it and breathe.
"Good," he says. "Good. Good."
He keeps saying it. Over and over. The only word he has right now.
His hand snakes around to splay low on my stomach—lower than my navel, just above where his cock is buried in me. His palm presses there, possessive, and he uses it to pull me back into him,hard, impaling me deeper onto his knot until I feel him in my belly through the skin under his hand.
I cry out into his thumb.
I clench around him so hard he hisses against my throat.
"Christ, sweetheart."
"Atlas—"
"Do you have any idea." His voice has gone rough. Low. Almost slurred. The Atlas who runs a company and reads a room better than anyone in the room, undone, talking into the bond mark at my throat. "Do you have any idea what you do to me? Any idea."
"Atlas—"
"I think aboutthis. Constantly. I sit in meetings, baby. With grown men in suits. Negotiating eight-figure deals. And I am thinking about your back against my chest. The exact sound you make when I push in. The way you smell after you come."
"Oh god—"
"I have ruined entire afternoons of my own thinking about you. I have driven through red lights. I have signed contracts I cannot remember signing. I get into the elevator at my own building and the doors close and I close my eyes and I amhere. In this bed. With my cock inside you. Listening to you breathe."
He clenches the hand on my stomach. Pulls me tighter against him. The knot grinds deeper and I make a sound I don't have a word for.
"Sweetheart."
"Atlas—I can't—I can't take—"
"You can. You will. Look at you. Look at how good you take me. Christ. I have wanted you back in bed since the secondI left you last. I have not stopped. The whole drive tonight. The whole afternoon at the beach house. Sitting at lunch yesterday watching my brothers' hands on you. I am rabid for you, Max. There is no part of me that is not."
"Atlas—"
"I have power over a lot of people. A lot of things. None of them have power over me the way you do. None."
His thumb is still pressed against my lower lip. I bite it. He laughs—wrecked, low, a sound that is half a sob.
He kisses the bond mark again. Slow. Open. Reverent. His hand stays splayed low on my stomach, holding me locked against him, holding me locked on his cock.
"I think about this when I cannot sleep," he murmurs. Quieter now. "Just this. You against me. Your breath. The bond. I close my eyes and I put myself here. And I sleep."
"Atlas."
"Mm."
"I—"
"Don't say anything, sweetheart. Just stay. Just stay right here."
