Page 18 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

The aftershocks roll through me in long, ragged jerks. He doesn't slow. He keeps fucking me through every spasm, dragging more pleasure out of me than I knew my body could hold. His thumb stays pressed against my swollen clit, riding the climax with me, milking every last shudder. The slick floods around the base of his cock and runs down the insides of my thighs. The wet, slapping sound of his hips against mine doubles in volume—my own arousal soaking everywhere our bodies meet.

Alas stiffens. The muscles in his arms bulge under his skin. A roar breaks from his chest.

He drives his hips forward one final time, burying himself so deep I feel the blunt head of his cock scrape against my cervix. He locks his hips against mine. He unloads his seed deep inside my womb.

Hot pulses of his cum flood my core. He fills me. The heat of it spreads through my lower belly, a permanent brand.

He collapses forward. His chest crushes my bare breasts, holding me securely against the wood. His breathing is ragged, gasping, like a dying man who just dragged himself out of the ocean. He buries his face in my neck, his mouth still open against my skin, tasting my sweat.

I wrap my arms tightly around his wide back. The harsh ridges of muscle and scar press against my palms.

The wind howls violently outside the single window, battering the glass. But inside the cramped, wax-scented honey shed, the air is hot and silent save for our ragged breathing.

I feel my grandfather's hands in the wax under my heels. I feel two years of fighting alone—the weight of every hive I lifted, every Syndicate marker I tore down in the dark—finally crack open and run out of me onto the floorboards. Alas's heart hammers against my ribs. He stays where he is. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to.

The cold cast iron against my hip. The dominant weight of him fully sinking into me.

I close my eyes. I’m no longer alone on the ridge. He’s the lock, and I’m the iron door locking shut.

His cock is still buried deep inside my body. He makes no move to pull out. He makes no move to soften the crushing weight of his chest against mine. He stays where he is, keeping me pressed to the wood beneath us, claiming the space, claiming my body, claiming the air in my lungs.

My fingers trace the jagged lines of the scars across his shoulder blades. The rigid tension in his muscles hasn't faded. The unanchored rage that defines his existence is still there, humming under his skin, but it’s no longer wild. It’s pointed outward. Aimed at the southern trail. Aimed at the Crimson Hollow Syndicate. Aimed at anyone who dares to cross the boundary line of this farm.

"You're not leaving this shed," he mutters darkly against my collarbone. His voice is a low, terrifying sound that vibrates straight through my bones.

I huff out a weak, breathless laugh. My sassy internal defense mechanism tries to kick in. He thinks he can just grunt at me and I'll obey? I run a twelve-acre farm. I don't take orders.

But the argument dies on my tongue before it even forms. Because I don't want to leave the shed. I don't want to move. I want him where he is, buried inside me, lethal and mine.

I drag my nails lightly down his spine. He shivers, an involuntary reaction from a man who’s never allowed himself a moment of vulnerability in his life.

The bees recognized it first. They saw the stillness in him. The lack of fear. The immovable calm that lies underneath the violence. They landed on his bare knuckles and accepted him as part of the hive.

I’m just catching up to what the bees already knew.

He shifts his hips slightly, the still-hard length of his cock sliding just a fraction of an inch against my swollen internal walls. Another spike of heat flares low in my belly. The friction drags a soft, involuntary moan from my lips.

Alas lifts his head. His stare locks onto mine. The empty void is gone, replaced by a burning fire that sears straight through to my soul.

He reaches up, his hand catching the side of my face. His thumb strokes the darkening bruise he just sucked into the soft skin of my neck.

"The markers are gone," he says. His voice is flat. Final. "The trail is closed. They come near this property again, I’ll bury them in the dirt."

He doesn't ask if I’m okay with that. He doesn't look for my approval. He’s stating a fact. He’s taken the war off my shoulders. The exhaustion of fighting the Syndicate alone evaporates into the warm, honey-scented air.

I nod slowly. My hands slide up to cup his jaw, my thumbs brushing the rough stubble on his cheeks. "Hold the line," I whisper.

A dark, dangerous smirk ghosts across his lips. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything close to a smile on his face. It changes him. The lethal Prospect transforms into something even more terrifying: a man who’s finally found his reason to burn the world down.

He leans in, his mouth crashing down on mine. The kiss is deep, punishing, and possessive. He tastes like my own arousal and sharp, violent intent. He grinds his hips aggressively against my pelvis, driving his cock deeper into the pool of his own seed inside my womb.

The uncapping tank rattles against the floorboards again. The single lightbulb swings on its string, throwing our intertwined shadows against the stacks of empty wooden supers.

The mountain downdraft screams against the windowpane, bringing the cold reality of the impending war to the glass. But inside my sanctuary, surrounded by the smell of smoke and honey, the war is already won.

He doesn't stop. He sets a new rhythm, slower this time, but infinitely deeper. Each thrust stretches me perfectly, grinding against my swollen clit, keeping me suspended in a state of agonizing pleasure.

I surrender to the weight of his body and the beautiful finality of his claim. I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, locking him inside me. The solitary, exhausted beekeeper died the second he breached my walls.