Page 90 of Knot Their Fated M.U.S.E

I cry out at the contact, head falling back against the tiles as he explores with careful thoroughness. His touch carries reverence despite the desperation driving us both—worship disguised as claiming, devotion wrapped in primal need.

"So wet for me already," he murmurs with wonder, fingers stroking through my arousal with gentle insistence. "So perfect. So ready."

"Please," I gasp, the word torn from somewhere deeper than pride or tactical calculation. "I need you. Need this. Need to feel whole again."

It feels odd to hear myself beg. Almost foreign and unnatural, and yet submitting to him,to my Alpha,seems so effortlessly right and almost righteous, I can’t dare take the time to second-guess it.

His response comes as action rather than words—the broad head of his cock replacing his fingers at my entrance, pressing forward with careful control that speaks to consideration despite overwhelming desire.

The stretch makes me whimper, my body working to accommodate his considerable size. It's been too long, too many years since anyone touched me with genuine care rather than clinical detachment.

But my body remembers this connection, omega biology welcoming its alpha home with slick heat and eager yielding.

"Breathe," he commands gently, one hand stroking my thigh while the other cups my face with infinite tenderness. "Let me in, little omega. Let me make you mine the way we were always meant to be."

I force myself to relax, to trust in his careful handling as he sinks deeper with incremental precision.

Each inch stretches me fuller, creates perfect friction that borders on overwhelming yet never crosses into pain.

When he's finally seated completely inside me, we both freeze—overwhelmed by the perfection of connection six years in the making. Nothing has ever felt this right, this complete, this absolutely inevitable.

"Fuck," he breathes, forehead pressed against mine as we adjust to the overwhelming sensation. "You feel like coming home."

Tears spill down my cheeks at his words, emotion mixing with physical pleasure until I can't distinguish between them.

This is home—not a place but a person, not safety but belonging, not peace but passionate completion that makes every hardship worthwhile.

I know if I get lost in the heaviness of emotion, I’ll lose this crafted masterpiece of hardened personalities. I have to keep thriving off my desires, then linger on how emotionally fulfilling this is.

At least until we escape this place together…

"Move," I whisper, the request carrying desperate need that transcends mere physical desire. "Please move."

His hips withdraw slowly before pressing forward again, each thrust measured and deep. The rhythm he establishes speaks of worship rather than simple claiming, reverent possession that honors what we're creating together rather than taking what he wants without consideration.

Water streams over our joined bodies as he sets a pace that builds slowly, each movement creating friction that sends electricity racing through nerve endings already singing with pleasure.

My nails dig into his shoulders as sensation builds, marking him the way he's marking me through this claiming that binds us beyond institutional categorization or designation dynamics.

"Mine," he growls against my throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin with just enough pressure to promise future marking. "My omega. My mate. My everything."

How ownership can be so fucking powerful.

Empowering, obessessive, and so fucking addicting.

"Yours," I gasp in response, the acknowledgment flowing from somewhere deeper than conscious thought. "Always yours. From that first moment in the cage, I've been yours."

His pace increases at my words, thrusts becoming more demanding as alpha instinct takes precedence over careful consideration.

Not rough but intense, each movement claiming territory with growing urgency that speaks to biological imperative, finally given free rein.

The building pleasure coils tighter with each stroke, pressure accumulating at the base of my spine with delicious intensity. I can feel my body preparing for climax, omega biology responding to alpha dominance with enthusiasm that would be embarrassing if I possessed any capacity for shame.

But shame has no place in this steamed sanctuary where institutional horror fades beneath perfect connection. Here exists only truth—the recognition of bonds that transcend time and circumstance, the acknowledgment of belonging that no amount of separation could truly sever.

"Come for me," he commands, voice shredded by his own unraveling restraint, raw with need and thunder. "Come on my cock like you were made for it. Show me how perfectly you were built to take your Alpha."

The words hit harder than any drug they ever forced into my bloodstream.

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