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Fal’ran made a pleased sound low in his throat that rumbled so strongly it traveled from Fal’ran’s palm down into Patrick’s hips. Fal’ran leaned over him, pressing his foot closer to his glute and pulling the stretch tighter. “Is this better?”
Patrick squeezed his eyes shut as Fal’ran’s rough voice scraped down his spine. “Yeah—ungh.” Patrick’s hand shot out to grab at the ground when Fal’ran pushed harder, without warning. His mind shorted out with the pleasure-pain and he scratched his blunt nails over the tarp floor. “Yeah, fuck, that’s good.”
Fuck, it was too good.
Patrick’s trapped length filled and horror flooded Patrick’s throat as the pressure of Fal’ran’s hand on his lower back pressed his cock exquisitely into the hard ground below him. He bit his lip to keep in the moan, but it didn’t matter what sound he made, because his scent said it all. Fal’ran inhaled sharply, and Patrick wanted to die. Fal’ran fingers flexed against him and when he growled, Patrick’s hips twitched traitorously against the ground, sending more sparks of pleasure up his spine.
Bar’in’s shrill voice sliced through the tent. “Okay, time! Time, time, time, Tar, get the fuck off me. I can’t take it anymore.”
Patrick yanked his head up to see Bar’in scrambling to his feet and pulling a confused-looking Tar up to standing as well. “Bar’in!”
But Bar’in—his face flushed and his nose scrunched—ignored him and grabbed Sazahk’s shoulder. “It smells like the goddamn brothel in here. Let’s give them some fucking space.”
“What? Where are we going?” Sazahk fell off his stool when Bar’in tugged him to the tent entrance. His skin flooded with orange, and he looked dazed, his qeshian nose having been oblivious to the absolute clusterfuck their stretching session had turned into.
“To look at the trees in real life, come on.” Bar’in pushed Sazahk towards the door and grabbed Tar’s wrist to bring him along. “Let’s go!”
“Bar’in!” Patrick called again, but the tent was already flapping closed by the time he’d finished the name. He dropped his forehead hard onto the ground. “Fuck.”
His shoulders hunched in shame. So much for building respect and not fucking up the team dynamic. His cock—finally, thankfully—shriveled up in his pants. He’d known he shouldn’t have gone anywhere near Fal’ran, but it had seemed safe with the entire team there. Now he realized it had been a thousand times more dangerous. Bar’in and Tar and Sazahk hadn’t needed to bear witness to this out-of-hand fucking bullshit between him and Fal’ran. They hadn’t consented to smell Patrick’s—Patrick hunched his shoulders up higher, and his eyes burned—arousal.
Fal’ran sighed above him and soothed the side of his knee with his thumb. “Bar’in’s fine.”
Patrick clenched his fists. “They shouldn’t have had to be here for that.”
“For what?” Fal’ran snorted. “We didn’t do anything.”
Patrick’s shoulders reached up for his ears as he mumbled to the ground. “You know what I mean.”
Fal’ran’s hand slipped low on Patrick’s back and Patrick shivered as his body took interest again. “You mean how we both smell like we should already be naked.”
Patrick turned his face away from the ground to spit out his reply. “Fuck you, Fal’ran. This isn’t a game.”
“What are you so upset about?” Fal’ran sounded genuinely bewildered as he leaned over Patrick, sending a wave of pain up the front of his leg that had Patrick’s stupid fucking cock twitching again. “Tar and Sazahk couldn’t even smell us and even if they could, who cares? You’re Klah’Eel. You know people smell each other’s feelings all the time. It’s fucking life. It’s not a big deal.”
Patrick’s body slackened.
You’re Klah’Eel.
He’d said it so casually, so obviously. Patrick was Klah’Eel. He had the citizenship papers and the decades of service to prove it, but so few klah’eel ever said it. Ever seemed to think it.
And he wasn’t wrong. Patrick had lived in a barracks for years. He’d never been able to smell anything, but the locker-room talk, the flared nostrils, and the looks people gave each other had all told him that any time you stuck a bunch of red-blooded men together in a small space, someone’s unbidden lust saturated the air.
Sensing his moment of weakness, Fal’ran bent Patrick’s leg farther and worked his hips into the ground, sending two dueling flashes of pain and pleasure up Patrick’s spine. “So, relax and let us enjoy ourselves.”
No. That logic stuck wrong in Patrick’s mind. But a wave of pleasure crashed over him and swept all logic away when Fal’ran rocked his hips again. He moaned and dropped his forehead down. God, it felt good. With Fal’ran’s weight hovering over him and twisting his joints up behind him, somehow the fucking ground was even better than his own hand.
Not that he’d been using his hand at all lately. Too afraid—Patrick gasped and thrust against the rough floor when Fal’ran dug his nails through the thin fabric of his tank and bit into the skin over his hips—too afraid of the face he’d see in his mind’s eyes as he worked himself. Too afraid of seeing Fal’ran’s firm jaw and sharp tusks and intense dark orange eyes.
“Fuck, Fal’ran, you—” The thick tarp tore under Patrick’s fingernail as he scratched across it with another gasp.
“I what?” Fal’ran released his foot back to the ground and grabbed his other one, bending his knee to arc it over his back. Patrick grunted as the unstretched muscle pulled and his cock kicked. The cotton fabric over his tip dampened and he flushed. Fal’ran dropped his head down between Patrick’s shoulder blades and inhaled, and Patrick’s body temperature hiked up. “Make you feel good? Make you feel better than anyone else? Touch you like no one else?”
Patrick growled and gathered every ounce of his wits back to himself. “Are completely fucking out of line.”
He felt Fal’ran’s sharp inhale against the center of his back, so different from a second ago, when Fal’ran had breathed him in, consumed him. He sounded hurt, and fresh guilt sliced through Patrick’s arousal and confusion.
Then Fal’ran’s fingers flexed against him, and he spoke with a brittle but vicious tone. “So, call ‘time’ then. Call ‘time’ and tell me to stop.”
