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He gripped her hips, drew his own back, and slammed home again.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, but she leaned back into him, and she didn’t say stop, so he built a rhythm that way, urgent and brutal, digging bruises into her hipbones with fingertips that wanted to turn to claws.
In and out, and in and out. Slap of skin against skin. Sweat dripping off his nose and onto her back, dotting the fabric of her dress. He could feel her, could smell her–
And he could smell his packmate, too.Pack. Brother. Mine. Mate. His stomach cramped with urgent want, and he growled, low and lupine through gritted teeth, unable to hide the animal quality of it.
While he fucked her, he twisted a look over his shoulder, seeking out Ragnar. He sat on the edge of his chair, gripping his own thighs, nails sharp and black, shifted to claws. Sweat shone on his brow, and in the hollow of his throat, irises the barest blue ring around the deep black of his pupils as he studied the place where Leif’s cock disappeared inside the girl, over and over. His cock looked painfully hard where it pushed against his flies.
Mine, mine, mine. It filled his head on loop, and Leif was past the point of questioning it. Nothing existed now outside this room, this table, the pained huffs of Brigitte’s breath and the slap of his hips against her ass as he filled her, over, and over, and over, table creaking beneath the onslaught.
“Come here,” Leif rasped, and he put his full alpha voice behind it, a true order.
Ragnar scrambled to comply; under different circumstances, Leif would have laughed at the way he tripped over himself, and stumbled up to stand beside him, one hand braced on the table, the other cupped protectively over the bulge in his trousers.
Leif adjusted his grip; slid a hand to her lower back and urged her down lower over the table, changing the angle, going deeper.
“Touch yourself,” he told Ragnar, and Ragnar hissed.
“Thank the gods. Shit. Shit…ah.” He tore at his flies and fumbled his trousers down around his hips. “Gods,” he murmured, head tipping back as he got a hand around himself and started stroking.
Brigitte was echoing his sounds, higher, breathier. “Oh…ah…gods…yes.”
But Leif’s eyes were on Ragnar, on the almost frenzied motion of his hand over his cock, thumb pressing fast into the slit on each upstroke, squeezing tight on the down. Leif had seen him before, of course he had, in the dungeons, and in a creek the day before, when the pack stopped to bathe in frigid spring water. He’d been soft, then, not flushed this pretty pink…all the way up to his face. Not with his head hanging, and his biceps bunching thick and strong as he worked himself, faster, faster.
“Don’t come,” Leif ordered, and it was Ragnar’s cut-off whine, as he gripped tight at the base of his shaft, staving off orgasm, that sent Leif tumbling into his second orgasm, earlier than he’d thought possible.
He grunted, and bore down on the girl – he’d forgotten her name, forgotten what town they were in, forgotten everything but her muted cry, and the clench of her sex around him, and Ragnar, panting and hungry, watching him, as pleasure crested like a wave, and slammed him right in the chest.
His vision went black a second. His stomach cramped. He felt the growl rumbling in his chest and wondered if it left his lips; he didn’t know, couldn’t hear.
When he came back to himself, tingling head to toe, warm throughout like he’d drunk cups of warm mistress, he found that he was still lazily thrusting into the girl, the way slick and heated now from his spend. Satisfied for the moment, buzzing pleasantly, heavy and pleased, and proud.
He pulled out of her, and shuffled back, and marveled a moment at the mess he’d made, catching his breath.
Then he looked to Ragnar, and said, “Your turn.”
~*~
Ragnar wasn’t expecting it. His face transformed, first to blank shock, then disbelief, then fervent desperation. “Alpha,” he murmured, low and rapt, and Leif felt his cock twitch with a faint stir of renewed interest.
An interest he didn’t do anything about.
Leif dragged a chair to the side and slumped back into it, sated for the moment, content to watch Ragnar step in behind Brigitte and feed his cock into her slick sex, inch by inch. He was drowsy, now, but refused to let his eyelids flag, gaze skipping from Ragnar’s hands clenched on the girl’s hips, to the dent and flex of his backside where his trousers had slid down, as he fucked her at the same furious pace that Leif had. Slap-slap-slap of sweat-damp skin. His hair swung forward and back on every thrust, bones clicking together, tooth necklace chattering as it slapped against his chest. His mouth was open, he was panting, and grunting, and growling under his breath, face twisted up with the same sort of painful pleasure that had afflicted Leif minutes ago.
By the time he came with a shout, hips kicking hard enough to send Brigitte into a paroxysm of gasps and moans as she finally found her own release, Leif had his hand on his cock again, stroking absently just to feel the weight of it, no real intention of bringing himself off again.
When Ragnar pulled out, Brigitte collapsed forward onto the table, sighing out little hiccupping sounds, pushing her hair off her face while their combined spend trickled down her thighs.
That was from both of them, Leif thought, gut clenching. Him and Ragnar together.
Hiscousin.
Atraitor.
Pack. Mine, mine, mine. Mate.
Ragnar staggered back, turned around, and crawled into Leif’s lap.
