Page 65 of The Wulver's Bond
‘Oh,’ Moss rasped, understanding and reeling with desire. ‘Yes, wolfie. Knot me. Fuck.’
The throbbing bulge of the Wulver’s knot stretched Moss so wide he found himself wheezing against the strain. It was heavy, a weighty lump that dragged all his attention to the sensation. He felt stuffed utterly, impossibly full, and weirdly secure in that.
He wasn’t going anywhere, Moss realised, until this knot disappeared. He was locked against the Wulver for however long that might take.
‘Mine,’ Arran croaked again, and holy shit if that didn’t fill Moss with a whole new kind of giddiness to contend with.
The Wulver’s fur was wet and sticky where they connected, and with a little more concentration Moss felt the wolfman’s fat dick still slowly convulsing inside him. Each pulse travelled from his veiny knot up the shaft to his still-hard cockhead, which then expanded and released another viscous spurt of cum inside him.
Moss was so full of fluid that it made his belly feel swollen, and he swore some of it must be forcing a path around Arran’s knot because he also felt a constant trickle dripping from his hole, coating his balls and his thighs and the sheepskin under him.
His dick spasmed in the Wulver’s hand, frantic with need. Moss wiggled futilely, seeking sympathetic friction. Arran gave a husky laugh that rippled his fur over Moss’s back and jostled the knot inside him.
The contrast of soft and rough sliding against Moss’s flesh incited another moan from him. ‘Please,’ he begged, pawing at Arran’s hold on his dick.
‘Mine,’ Arran growled for a third time. ‘Say it.’
‘Yours,’ Moss replied instantly, out of breath. ‘Yours, yours, yours.’
With each word Arran rocked his hips, making shallow thrusts with his knot that had Moss keening after each one. It was harsh and loving. Arran removed his grip from Moss’s dick and said, in a voice rough with affection, ‘Come for me, Moss.’
The sudden release of his dick made Moss go light-headed as it bloated, sending excruciating shocks of bliss through his veins. His dick spilled its juices like a sputtering fountain, discharging wave after wave of pent-up ecstasy over the bed.
Arran’s jaws closed over the join of his throat and shoulder. Fangs pierced him, made Moss shriek and expel yet another round of cum. Arran’s arms encircled him, the growl in his chest filling Moss as well. The Wulver’s body went still, and they were simply locked together by knot and teeth as Arran’s jaws didn’t seem able to let go.
Moss’s body gradually stopped trembling as the aftershocks died away. Arran’s breath burned into his bark. Their lungs expanded and collapsed in time with each other.
Arran’s great weight loosened over Moss. Hugging him tightly, Arran rolled on his side, pulling Moss with him. It allowed Moss’s limbs to relax, and the bulk of Arran’s knot began to feel almost comfortable.
After a few more minutes of quietly existing together, Arran unfastened his jaws and licked at the sap oozing from Moss’s broken flesh.
‘Are you all right?’ Arran growled softly.
‘Better than ever, wolfie,’ Moss murmured, snuggling into him. He squirmed on Arran’s knot, provoking a groan from the wolfman.
Arran rutted into him again. ‘Do you never stop?’
‘Not likely.’ Moss sniggered and grew a patch of vines from his skin—he sent them twisting over Arran’s body, clasping him from every angle. He would have slyly wrapped one round the base of Arran’s dick if he could, but there wasn’t the slightest gap between the meeting of their bodies. ‘You signed up for an eternity of this, wolfie.’
Arran continued to lap at the wound he’d inflicted, while his hands stroked gently over Moss’s body. ‘I welcome it.’
Moss felt cherished.
‘I want to lay my roots here,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s grow this place together.’
Arran nuzzled his neck. ‘Yes.’
Moss unwound, stretching his spirit beyond his physical form.
Already, the ravine beyond the cave was a part of Moss, and he a part of it. The dune willows swayed to his underground song. It was a tune they recognised. A melody of survival, of sturdy roots holding strong against an inhospitable climate, of tough stems enduring unforgiving winds. They would not be blown down.
Moss curled deeper into Arran’s warm embrace.
They would not be blown down.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Summer faded into autumn and the simmer dim retreated, turning Shetland’s nights cold and dark once more. Arran watched Moss sprout new plants in their ravine, growing a garden of hardy forage that would survive the winter. He planted more trees, too, in greater variety than Arran had ever seen elsewhere on the island. The ravine began to look like an orchard, hosting hazel, birch, and alder at different elevations.
