Page 20 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

Cyrus grunts, then sighs out through his nostrils. “You’re so tight. You’ve—you’ve got me losing myself already.”

Alana catches her bottom lip between her teeth. The idea of being the cause of Cyrus’ undoing this early gives her immense satisfaction. Perhaps he’s not the only one with an ego willing to be stroked. She wants to test his resolve, see how quickly she could make him be the one to fall apart this time. He probably sounds so handsome when he’s brought to devastation. Unfortunately, Alana doesn’t get an opportunity to linger on that temptation. Not before Cyrus begins pushing the rest of the way in. A new type of pain threatens to fester when he gets past the halfway mark, easily the thickest part. Each time Alana thinks he’s there, he pushes further, stretching her wider, testing her limits.

“You’re taking me like a princess, baby,” Cyrus whispers against the shell of her ear. “I’m almost there. I’ve got you.” He licks her cheek, nuzzling her and giving her another second to catch her breath.

Tears continue trickling down Alana’s face, causing her mascara to run in a streaky mess of gray and black. She looks like a wreck, but she can’t bring herself to care.

Not with Cyrus talking to her like this. Not with how adored she feels right now. The werewolf sighs and gives another soothing lap across the back of her neck, easing her down as she finally takes him to the base. A shuddered gasp rips from Alana’s throat, and her knuckles turn white again as she grips the sheets for dear life. He’s so big. Too big. There’s a fullness in her chest, and it threatens to impale her lungs. All that remains is his knot; the swollen bulb is pressed flush against her opening, practically throbbing.

“Mm. I told you, your body can take it,” he breathes. He rubs a soothing hand across her ass, then up her back. “It’s a damn shame you can’t see this view.”

Heat erupts beneath Alana’s face. She can picture how he’s looking at her and feel how his glowing eyes drink in every square inch of her most intimate parts. Barely clinging to life, all she can do is whine. Thankfully, Cyrus knows well enough to take that as a sign to continue. The pace is slow, painstakingly so; a torpid roll of his hips meant to give her more time to adjust. She’s thankful for it, even if she wants to yell at him not to hold back. To fuck her hard and unyielding. To break her. She bites back the urge, though, lest she end up in the emergency room for real. As if reading her mind, Cyrus does eventually pick up the pace. His body shifts to fully mount her, both hands on either side of her hips, while his chest presses flush against her back. His fur is velvet against her skin, and she wishes they could switch positions so she could spend more time threading her hands through it. Or at the very least, anchor herself when he inevitably ruins her.

But this is nice, too.

He buries his face in her neck once more, where every sound the wolf makes feathers across Alana’s ear. Each low huff of breath. Each strained growl and grunt hissed through gritted canines. But between those noises is a poorly concealed whimper. It forms a smile on her face and pulls her back to her curiosity about how Cyrus sounds when he falls.

“You feel so good, Cyrus,” she whispers. “You’re so—ah— big.”

He’s just as skillful with his dick as he is with his fingers and mouth. The fullness, the stretch. The way he angles himself in the perfect position, the one that makes her vision fragment. How was she ever, ever meant to go back to a toy after this?

Cyrus’ hips start to stutter. A crack in the ice, a fraying thread. The hand that claimed refuge on her hip trails upwards and around her throat, where it squeezes —lightly—before forcibly tilting her head back. It earns a gasp, unexpected but thrilled all the same. Oh. Oh, yes.

Wide, tear-stained eyes meet his, and there’s no disguising the heat in his expression. The sweet, charmed demeanor she’s come to know so well has been replaced with something powerful and raw and visceral, a mirror to a side of herself that’s lain dormant beneath shackles of misplaced expectations. All those years spent wasted, sheltering her sexual desires. As if she could ever consider this experience as anything other than a fucking godsend.

“That’s it, baby girl. Keep those pretty brown eyes on me,” Cyrus rasps. He rakes a clawed thumb across her chin, then her bottom lip. Alana’s mouth opens, her pretty, pink tongue rolling forward. It’s like her body knows what it wants and acts on its own accord. When saliva trickles onto Cyrus’ hand, his breath hitches, eyes flickering like he’s holding himself back somehow. He licks his muzzle and dips his thumb inside; then, wordlessly, Alana sucks, moaning around him in a shameless display of unadulterated neediness.

“Shit. ‘Lana…” Cyrus’ hips snap violently, the echo of skin hitting against skin resounding around them. A smile curves around the digit in Alana’s mouth as she meets his thrusts; she fucks him back in measured tandem, meeting every rough movement until she feels her ass and the back of her thighs sting with the harshness of the impact. It hurts so, so good, clouding her mind and leaving it hazy and impossible to think of anything other than this. Them, together, bodies pressed so close they could become one.

Neither can last much longer. The slow, building pressure that always tells Alana when she’s close has reached its peak, pleasure winding down her limbs, curling her toes, and heating her body to its boiling point. Cyrus has gone silent, his breathing ragged and clipped. The hand on her hip tightens, bruising where his dark claws dip into her flesh. The pain is sharp, but with the brutal rhythm of Cyrus fucking her, she’s hurled to her end in an unexpected, blinding rush. Alana’s eyes roll back as her orgasm hits; her moans are muffled, unintelligible pleas and cries. She clenches uncontrollably, her body milking Cyrus for everything he’s worth.

“Goddamn,” Cyrus hisses. “Alana, fuck, I—!”

The breathless grunt of her name is immediately chased with the same high-pitched whine from earlier, only there’s no disguising the sound this time. It’s defeated, as if he’d tried so hard to stave off his release but couldn’t hold back any longer. His claws dig deeper grooves into Alana’s skin as he holds her in place, his hips snapping forward in a final, violent thrust as he comes undone. He keeps himself steady while he spills rope after rope of himself into the condom, and Alana trembles and cries out a second time. Even with the protection, the heat of his spend seeps out of the barrier. There’s just so much of it, satisfying and warm and so addicting that it turns her brain to radio static. His knot presses against her, too. Swollen and heavy, practically begging for her body to accept it. It takes everything not to try and take him, to fuck back against him until it pops in and locks them together for one solitary night. She tries, but her body has met its limit. Any attempt to move is futile, her bones morphing to overcooked spaghetti. Cyrus remains unmoving, and time blurs into nonexistence.

When he does pull out, Alana groans in protest at the loss of his fullness, an ache manifesting in the pit of her stomach. In a lapse of imprudence, she wants to ask him to slip back inside just to keep it in for a little while longer, but her ability to speak is rendered useless.

Cyrus grunts as he repositions to his side, and smooths his hands up and down Alana’s back. “Still with me?” His rough paw pads skirt across a particularly deep scratch he had left behind, and his tongue soothes over it when she winces at the contact. “Sorry for that.”

The guilt in his apology makes Alana laugh. Sorry, he says. As if he hadn’t given her the best orgasms of her entire life. Before she can respond, he slips out from beside her. The warmth of his fur and the weight of his body depart, and he disappears into the bathroom.

When he returns, human once more, there’s a damp washcloth in his hand. He takes ample care to clean her up, wiping the remains of arousal and lube and blood until she is finally clean. Or at least, cleaner. His touch is feather-light, and the intimacy of it is as raw as when he fucked her.

“That was incredible, Miss Alana,” he murmurs. His voice is a stark contrast to the man he was minutes ago, all bared fangs and violent raking of his claws. The washcloth trails over her forehead, and he wipes away any residual beads of sweat.

Her heart beats wildly, untamed and reckless like she used to wish she could be as a person. Maybe then, she’d find the courage to pull Cyrus in and kiss him hard enough to convince them both that this could be something beyond a transaction. “T-thanks,” Alana rasps. Her words are slow, as if her brain is struggling to coordinate with her mouth in a timely manner. “Not so…bad…yourself.”

Cyrus’ lip twitches with a soft laugh. He discards the soiled washcloth and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, a warm hand traveling up her side. His touch remains soothing, delicate. “There’s water beside you when you’re ready,” he says. “You’re going to want to hydrate. I have some Tylenol, if you’re in any pain. Can run you a shower when you’re up to it, too.”

There’s a carafe on the nightstand and a small basket of snacks that she hadn’t noticed before, but she doesn’t make a move for anything yet. Her limbs are heavy and numb, and she can’t even think about trying to swing her legs over the bed, let alone walk to the shower. Gods, it hurts. But it’s a pleasant kind of ache. Different than the kind she feels as Cyrus smiles down at her. The lines by his eyes shift when he does; with it, comes an urge to trace them with the pads of her fingers or follow them to the lock of hair currently out of place and tuck it behind his ear.

“I know you probably have to tell people they’re incredible,” she says, face warming. “But I really do hope that I was good for you, too. By the way.” This may have been a paid experience, but she wanted it to be a mutually pleasurable encounter. A lack of experience meant there was also a lack of feedback when it came to performance.

Although, if that filled condom was any indication, maybe she wasn’t half bad.

Cyrus blinks at her statement, a single brow lifted. Then, low laughter rolls out from him like a passing storm. He cups her face in his hands and leans forward to kiss her forehead. Heat surges down Alana’s body at the press of his lips, and he flicks her nose.

“I don’t have to tell people anything, Darlin’. I don’t like liars, and I don’t say anything I don’t actually mean. And you, Miss Alana, are…” He runs a hand through his hair. “You are something dangerous. You had me afraid I wasn’t going to last more than two minutes. That’s not exactly something I’ve had to worry about since high school, at least.”