Page 15 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

I hold her there. Keep the pressure on her hyper-sensitive clit while the aftershocks roll through her body. Grinding my aching cock against her thigh one last, desperate time.

Her thighs lock around my forearm. Her cunt clenches against the heel of my hand in long, ragged pulses. The slick floods my palm. I keep working her through it. Every aftershock she gives me, I press my thumb against her clit and drag a fresh shudder out of her body. I want to feel every single one. I want her to know I’m the source.

The bees hum louder. The queen vibrates against my hand where it rests on the wood. The hive knows. The hive accepts her surrender as part of the territory now.

The bees are still humming. A few lazily crawl over my bare knuckles as my hand rests low against her stomach, still inside her open suit. Utterly unbothered by the claiming that just happened inches away from their hive.

She slumps forward. Her forehead dropping against my sternum. Panting. Wrecked.

I pull my hand out of her pants.

The cold mountain wind hits my soaked fingers. They’re coated in her slick. Shining and wet.

I bring my hand up. Stop right in front of her face.

She opens her eyes. Dazed, dark, blown-out pupils staring at me.

I maintain unbroken eye contact as I press two fingers into my mouth.

Suck the slick off my own skin.

Taste her. Taste the salt, the honey, the dark, rich flavor of her arousal.

She whimpers at the sight. Her legs nearly give out.

The flavor of her stays on my tongue. I press my thumb against her lower lip and drag it across her mouth, leaving a streak of her own slick on her flushed skin. She parts her lips automatically. Her tongue darts out and tastes herself on my thumb. A groan drags out of me.

"Get used to that taste," I breathe. "I'm going to be feeding it to you for the rest of your life."

I catch her. Wrap my clean arm around her waist and haul her upright.

I pull the gray tank top back down over her tits. Grab the shoulders of the canvas bee suit and haul them back up her arms. Yank the metal zipper all the way up to her collarbone, sealing her back inside the armor.

The restraint is actively killing me. My cock is a throbbing, agonizing length of pain inside my jeans. My balls ache with the desperate need to empty into her.

I take a long, deliberate breath. The scent of her sex is still on my hands. Still in my mouth. The wet patch where my own precum has soaked through the front of my jeans presses against my cock with every breath. I’m painfully hard. My balls are a tight, aching knot. Every cell in my body is screaming to unzip my jeans and finish what I started against this hive box.

I don't. Not because she's not ready. She’s ready—shaking and drenched and watching me with blown-out eyes. I don't take her here because the dirt isn’t good enough for the first time my cock is inside her. The honey shed is hers. That’s where I’ll claim her properly. Not against a wooden box in the cold morning while a Syndicate trail snakes through the woods fifty yards behind us.

I step back. Putting one foot of space between us.

The cold air rushes in, cooling the sweat on my neck.

I look at the tree line. The southern trail. The path the Syndicate thinks they can claim.

Let them come. Let them bring every single body they have. I have a reason to stay now. I have a reason to hold the line.

I look back at her. She’s leaning heavily against Colony D. Still trembling. Still smelling of my saliva and her own explosive climax.

"Finish your inspection," I say. My voice is flat. Deadened by the force of the control required to not throw her to the ground and take her in the dirt. I don't move. I hold my ground three feet away, the violent, unspent rage locked in my chest, and watch her.

5

Susan

My thighs tremble violently against the canvas of my bee suit. The phantom friction of his rough fingers still burns between my legs, a wet ache that refuses to dissipate. Alas stands three feet away in the dirt of the hive line. He just tore me apart out here in the open, shattered me, zipped my suit back up like a doll, and stepped away.

His chest heaves. His dead, black eyes track every micro-expression on my face. The mountain downdraft whips through the pines, biting my flushed cheeks, but I’m boiling alive. He’s vibrating with unspent violence. A muscle ticks furiously under the skin of his locked jaw. He’s a walking weapon, a man fueled by a rage that’s finally found an anchor. Me.