Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

The nursery monitor crackled once before falling silent.

Dean stood at the foot of their bed, fingers working the buttons of his shirt with more concentration than the task required. Behind him, Arion had finished settling Theodore into his cot after two false starts—a diaper change that Theo had protested with the moral outrage of a sovereign betrayed, followed by a bottle he had demanded and then refused to finish.

Now, finally, the suite had gone quiet.

Dean heard Arion’s footsteps cross the nursery floor, pause, then return through the connecting door. It clicked shut.

Neither of them moved.

The fire had burned low, throwing long shadows across the ceiling. Dean’s shirt hung open. He could feel the weight of Arion’s attention on his back like a hand between his shoulder blades.

”He’s asleep,” Arion said.

”I know.”

”Properly asleep.”

Dean turned.

Arion stood near the door, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms bare. His dark hair had given up entirely on whatever order it had possessed at breakfast. The black shirt stretched across his shoulders in a way Dean had spent days pretending not to notice.

”You’re still dressed,” Dean said.

”You’re not.”

”Working on it.”

Arion crossed the room slowly. Each step was deliberate but unhurried—the pace of a man who had made up his mind and intended to see it through. His fingers caught Dean’s open shirt, sliding it from his shoulders.

Dean’s breath left him in a controlled exhale.

”Months,” Arion said. His palm pressed flat over Dean’s sternum, warm and heavy. ”Seven said six weeks minimum. That was—”

”Fourteen weeks ago.”

”I know.”

”You’ve been counting.”

Arion’s mouth curved against Dean’s temple. ”Every day.”

Dean laughed, low. ”Then you’ve wasted fourteen weeks of counting.”

”I was busy.”

”You were avoiding.”

The fingers on his chest stilled. Arion pulled back enough to meet his eyes, and Dean watched the admission settle across his face.

”I was,” Arion said. ”Terrified of hurting you. Of pushing you before you were ready. Of wanting something you might not want back yet.”

Dean reached up and caught his jaw. ”I pushed you against the wall in the corridor three days ago.”

”You were exhausted.”

”I was extremely clear.”

”You were also holding Theo.”

”He was asleep.”

Dean kissed him.

It started as a soft press, both of them testing and recalibrating after months of careful distance. Then Dean’s fingers slid into Arion’s hair and pulled, and the kiss changed.

Arion made a sound against his mouth. Something between a breath and a groan, rough enough that it traveled down Dean’s spine and settled low in his stomach. Hands found his hips. Fingers dug in.

Dean broke away first, breathing hard. ”Bed.”

”Are you sure—”

”Arion.” Dean caught the front of his shirt. ”I have been cleared by two separate physicians, I have slept eight consecutive hours twice this week, and if you ask me one more time whether I’m sure, I will drag you onto that mattress myself.”

Arion’s pupils had gone wide and dark.

”Understood.”

They undressed the rest of the way quickly, but Dean noticed that Arion’s hands trembled slightly on the last button of his trousers. That detail lodged itself somewhere in Dean’s chest and stayed there.

The blankets were cool against his back. Dean stretched out, watching Arion climb over him with one knee settling between his thighs, weight braced on his forearms. Familiar position. Unfamiliar hesitation in the way Arion held himself above instead of against.

Dean reached up and pulled him down.

Arion’s weight settled over him, and Dean felt his whole body respond, his heart hammering, hips tilting upward without any conscious decision.

Arion’s forehead dropped to his collarbone. ”God, I missed you.”

”Then stop talking.”

Hands moved down Dean’s sides, slow and mapping, like Arion needed to re-learn the terrain. Over his ribs. Across his stomach. Dean jerked when fingers grazed the dip of his hip.

”Ticklish?”

”Shut up.”

Arion’s laugh was warm against his throat, followed by teeth. Dean arched into the sting and pressed his palm flat against Arion’s lower back, urging him closer.

Their hips aligned.

The first press of Arion against him pulled a sound from Dean he hadn’t made in months. Arion froze.

”Don’t stop,” Dean said, and his voice came out wrecked already.

Arion moved. Slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that built friction as they had months of recovery to account for, and Arion was clearly treating this like something that needed to be earned.

One hand braced on the pillow beside Dean’s head while the other hand cupped his jaw. Mouth tracing down his neck, across his collarbone, teeth closing over his nipple until Dean’s back lifted off the mattress.

Dean’s fingers twisted in the sheets.

”Arion.”

”Mm.”

”I need you inside me.”

Arion lifted his head. His eyes had gone nearly black, but there was still that edge of hesitation, the ghost of medical charts and recovery timelines.

Dean caught his face between both hands.

”I want this,” he said. ”I’ve wanted this for months. I’m not fragile. I’m not recovering. I’m your mate, and I’m asking you to make love to me.”

Something in Arion’s expression fractured.

He kissed Dean hard. Then his hand slid down between their bodies, fingers finding him, pressing inside him with a care that made Dean’s eyes sting with something that had nothing to do with pain.

”Ready?” Arion whispered.

”Yes.”

Arion entered him slowly.

Dean’s body remembered this. The stretch, the fullness, the way Arion paused halfway to let him breathe, and the way he always paused, every time, even after years. The way his forehead pressed to Dean’s as he bottomed out and stayed there, shaking slightly, waiting.

”Move,” Dean breathed.

Arion moved.

It was slow. Deep. Each thrust measured and deliberate, hips rolling into Dean with a rhythm that felt closer to reverence than sex. Dean’s legs wrapped around his waist. His nails dug into Arion’s shoulders. The room filled with a rhythm of breath and skin and the low sound of their bodies.

Climax built in Dean’s spine like heat, coiling tighter with each stroke. Arion’s hand slid between them, finding his penis, thumb circling the head in time with the rhythm. Dean’s head fell back. His mouth opened around a name.

Arion kissed him through the end.

Everything tightened, held, then broke apart in his belly with a shudder that ran the length of his body.

Arion followed moments later, buried deep, shuddering into Dean’s shoulder with a sound that was almost a sob.

They lay tangled afterward. Sweaty and breathless.

Dean traced the line of Arion’s spine with two fingers. ”That was...”

”What?”

”Worth the wait.”

Arion huffed against his neck. ”I’m not going to survive doing that regularly.”

”You’ll adapt.”

”I’m the crown prince of Alamina.”

”You’re my husband,” Dean said. ”Adapt.”

From the nursery, a sharp cry split the quiet.

Both of them stared at the ceiling.

Arion groaned.

Dean started laughing, helpless and half-spent against the mattress.

”Your son,” Arion said, ”has a very specific sense of humor.”

Dean turned his head, still grinning, and met Arion’s eyes.

”Your turn.”