Page 43 of Trust No Alpha
Four: If Kris’s presence had disturbed the cycles of his father and brother, Thorne should not assume he was immune. Already he felt odd arousals and proprietary affection for the young man, things he had never experienced between Burn cycles except for his mate Ian. He needed to prepare for the chance that Kris might trigger an early, unexpected Burn in him.
Thorne knew how to handle his own Burns. He’d been doing it unassisted for what seemed like forever. It was number three that had him rattled. If Kris entered his own first Burn here, Thorne would have to help him deal with it by either drugging him, which went against all his tenets and ethics, giving him toys, or providing an Omega for him.
This was something they really needed to discuss. Because of Kris’s anxieties and moods, Thorne dreaded it.
He fell asleep mulling the problem over and over in his mind.
Later, he would add number five to his not-so-good reasons for being unable to stop thinking about Kris.
Five: He dreamed of him.
*
In the whispering distances of a glacial void, he sat by a hearth looking down at himself, icy and wet wearing nothing but his robe. At the same time the firelight danced merrily over his skin. It burned.
Huddled on the stone at his feet, stunned and with his fine clothing torn along his back and his hips, Kris lay at Thorne’s feet, eyes closed and mouth gasping for air. He shivered. His arms wrapped tightly about his waist and he rocked back and forth, his knees drawn up.
Thorne reached out. “Kris.” His palms touched fire. Coal-hot searing pain swept through him, making him jerk back. But he knew if he didn’t touch him, Kris would die. Kris would end up like Ian beneath an old oak in a plot six feet underground.
He grabbed for him again. Pain from Kris’s burning body caused the void and the fire and the hearth to spin. He yelled until the echoes creased the blackness around them, and pulled Kris up into his arms. Thorne’s own skin blackened but he would not let go.
Kris’s clothing turned to ash and fluttered from his golden body. He lay in Thorne’s arms, the boy in the window, a dream pieta, head lolling back, blond hair dangling everywhere.
He was the stuff of dreams for sure, the golden boy that did not really exist. His arms were raised over his head, the muscles round and hard. His cock lay against his stomach, pink, beautiful, stiff. The tip was as red as the roses in Thorne’s front yard.
Kris’s knees bent. His legs spread. Beneath his tight ball sack the globes of his buttocks spread just enough to see the pale gold aperture that led into his body, hairless, clenching and unclenching in need.
Thorne cried out again. “Kris!”
Everything blurred. Gone was the hearth and the fire. Gone the void. Gone the pain. When he glanced down again, his arms embraced emptiness.
*
Thorne woke to the taste of salt in his mouth and the acrid scent of his own sweat. His cock throbbed hard against his abdomen. He sat up, immediately assessing the rest of his body, and especially his mind.
The loss of control he felt during a Burn was missing. He wasn’t paralyzed by raging lust. His mind seemed clear. Tension ebbed. His muscles relaxed as he took deep breaths. Brushing over the base of his cock he felt no impending knot.
This wasn’t the Burn.
It was just a dream.
But hell and damn what a dream!
He got out of his bed and into the cold midnight air, naked, and padded to the bathroom. His skin prickled. His cock didn’t like this one bit and threatened to deflate. But the images and sensations of the dream were still strong. The appendage bobbed demandingly.
Thorne turned on the shower until it steamed and stepped under the hot flow of water.
He put his whole head under the warm spray, eyes shut tight. But he could still see the flexing hole, the beautiful penis, the flaxen locks, the tall and shining body in his arms.
Happy to be under a warm fall of liquid, Thorne’s cock throbbed and reached outward for assistance to further its pleasure.
Eyes still closed, Thorne touched himself, first cupping his balls, then curving his thumb and forefinger around the base of his cock and milking upward. He thrust into his hand and came in seconds, his seed spilling into the drain, the shower filling with more heat and steam.
The orgasm coursed deep and hard, as if to leave scars on his already scarred psyche. But the whiteness in his mind that accompanied it was agonizingly good, and the afterglow a sought after peace that men always hunted but could not contain.
As if to thank him, his cock relaxed until it dangled limp between his legs. Sleeping.
Frowning at himself, and wondering when he had started to think of his own dick as a separate intelligence—no, not intelligent but a thing comprised pleasure and need—Thorne stepped from the shower and quickly dried off.
