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He might never have been with another male before—Beta, Alpha, or Omega—but I could tell from the first moment I suggested it to him that he wasn’t turned off by the idea. In fact, he seemed intrigued by it.
I can work with intrigued.
I sink to my knees, so his cock is right at mouth level. I can’t help but lick my lips, watching his slit glisten with precum.
From my position below, I stare up at Memphis’s stubbled face. He’s got plenty of time to stop me if this isn’t what he wants. But he just closes his eyes, giving me permission.
My fingers wrap around him, holding him loosely while I try a few exploratory pumps. When I tighten my grip, a moan escapes him and I feel his thighs tremble. I move my hand up and down a few more times, holding tighter and tighter with each stroke. Memphis’s mouth falls open. Clearly, he likes a little roughness.
I can give him that, and more.
My fist stops at the base of his cock as I lick the underside, using the broad part of my tongue to take him in. He tastes musky and salty, and best of all, there are still remnants of Brooklyn’s slick on him. The combination of their tastes on my tongue makes my own cock rock hard.
All kinds of images are flooding into my head now. Me sucking Memphis off while Brooklyn sits on his face, screaming when she comes. Or Memphis and me passing her between us, each filling her sweet cunt with our seed. If the two of them would let me, I’d do just about anything to get them off.
When I finally close my lips around the tip of Memphis’s cock, I can’t stop my groan of satisfaction. I hollow my cheeks as I sink lower, pausing when I’ve got half of him in my mouth. The weight of him on my tongue has my own cock even harder. Memphis might be enduring me sucking him off just to avoid a rut, but I love it. It’s fucking sexy, sucking off this big, quiet guy. Trying to see if I can break his self-control.
Then, broad fingers sink into my hair. Memphis pulls tightly on the strands.
I moan. It’s the first sign that he’s enjoying this, too. I move my head again a few times, taking in more of him with every pass of my lips. Maybe he’s too big for me to fit the whole thing, but fuck if I’m not gonna try.
Memphis snaps his hips forward, pushing his cock to the back of my throat. Apparently, Memphis wants to pick up the pace. And I let him.
His pace is punishing, and he fucks my mouth like he’s feral for me. Feral to find his own release. The force of his desire is intense and all-consuming. I have to concentrate to keep my gag reflex under control while he pistons into me. Using me for his pleasure. A few tears stream down my face as I struggle to take him, and that just makes it hotter.
I reach down to grab my own erection. I’m just as hard as he is, and I moan around Memphis’s cock while I pump myself. I won’t be able to last long, the way he’s thrusting into me like he’ll die if he stops. His desire only drives my own higher. Nothing turns me on more than seeing my partner falling apart, and Memphis is so fucking close. He might keep his feelings under wraps most of the time, but during sex, he’s completely transparent. The fire burning inside him is undeniably blazing hot.
Soon, his thrusts get faster and shallower. I increase the speed of my fist, too, trying to match him. Any minute, we’ll both fall over the edge.
Memphis goes first.
He groans my name as he fills my mouth with his seed. I swallow every drop, licking my lips as he pulls away. Fuck, he tastes good, salty and musky, with the slightest aftertaste of the Omega we both took today.
Closing my eyes, I’m about to come myself when I feel a hot, masculine hand close over mine. Memphis guides my hand for the last few strokes. I come in spurts on the ground in front of me.
We both kneel for a few minutes, coming down from the stupidly intense moment we just shared. Finally, our breaths regulate. Drops of water fall through the willow branches, reminding us that this was a temporary respite. We still have to collect those herbs and find our way back to Brooklyn and Memphis.
Neither of us speaks as we get to our feet, and I follow Memphis back out into the rain.
Our last ingredient is the hardest to find. Glasswort does grow in Olympic National Park, but there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to find the kind of sandy soil where it thrives. Considering the visibility isn’t getting any better, I’m wondering whether we should just turn back and make do with what we have.
Then, for the first time all day, we get lucky. I pump my fist in victory when I spot the distinctive chubby green leaves of the glasswort. I crouch to pluck the thick plants from the sandy dirt. They come out easily, roots and leaves, and I shove them in my pack’s side pocket.
“That’s all we needed!” I call out to Memphis. “We can head back to the caves now.”
It’s not a moment too soon. The rain’s vicious now, pounding so hard that I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some hail mixed in. We’d be lost without Memphis’s tracking abilities. He’s able to retrace our steps at a solid clip, even though the slippery ground slows our pace.
I stop trying to anticipate how long the journey might take. Trusting Memphis, I follow him closely, focusing on staying upright as my boots clomp through mud. It takes hours before we reach the ridge where we started, and the sky’s almost completely dark by the time we cross to the one by the caves.
Then, things get complicated. There’s a long ravine between us and the caves, with a thick fallen log connecting the sides. I look over the edge, and see a rushing river below. I mentally position us on the map—this is usually a small, calm waterway. The rain has already flooded it, and I can see the whitewater of crashing waves on the rushing water below.
“They crossed here!” Memphis has to shout to be heard over the rain. He points to the other side of the ravine, where thick nylon rope is tied around a tree, the end cut off roughly with a knife. If it weren’t neon yellow, we’d never spot it through the rain. It’s way too clean to have been left there by anyone but Denver and Brooklyn.
“Think the log can hold us?” I yell.
“It held Denver!” he answers. The soldier weighs more than either of us. It probably means the crossing should be safe.
I’m taller than Memphis, but he probably weighs more from sheer muscle. I motion for him to go first—if the wood starts cracking now that it’s soaking wet, it’s better that the lighter one goes last.
