Chapter 4: Dylan's Turn
The bedroom door clicked shut, muffling the distant thump of bass from downstairs. Silence, thick and sudden, pressed in. Derek leaned his forehead against the cool wood, eyes squeezed shut. His body still hummed, slick a persistent, betraying warmth between his thighs, a visceral reminder of Peter’s parting shot. Make sure you’re relieving all the brothers tonight. The crude command echoed, sharpening the ache in his knees, the deep, stretched feeling inside him.
He pushed himself off the door. Needed to move. Needed… he wasn’t sure. Not that. Not again. Not yet. But the insistent slickness, the low thrum in his veins leftover from the Alphas' scents, the sheer exhausting need to be filled… it was a physical compulsion, a biological leash. The cabin felt suffocating, charged with predatory expectation. His bare feet made soft sounds on the wooden hallway floor as he drifted away from the party’s epicenter, seeking quieter air.
He found it at the end of the hall. Dylan’s door was slightly ajar. Derek paused, listening. No muffled voices. No grunts. Just the faint crackle of a fire and the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of fingers on a keyboard. He nudged the door open wider.
The room was different. Warmer. Softer light from a standing lamp and the flickering orange glow of a healthy fire in a stone hearth chased the shadows into the corners. Pine and woodsmoke, clean and sharp, mingled with the subtle, grounding scent of old paper and leather that clung to Dylan. The Alpha sat at a heavy oak desk pushed against the wall opposite the large window, which framed a dense wall of moonlit forest. His broad shoulders were tense, hunched over a laptop, the blue light reflecting off the lenses of his reading glasses. A thick textbook lay splayed open beside him. He wore a worn grey hoodie pushed up to his elbows, the cord of his headphones trailing down his chest. His dark golden hair was mostly hidden under his ever-present navy baseball cap, but the edge of his neatly trimmed mustache was visible in profile. He hadn’t looked up.
Derek hovered in the doorway. Dylan Gonet. The quiet one. The disciplined one. The one who rarely participated in the rowdier frat activities, who watched with unnerving stillness. The one whose dominance wasn't loud, but felt like deep, cold water. Derek’s pulse, already erratic, skipped. This felt… different. Not the frantic, possessive energy of Nate or the entitled command of Peter. This was focused intensity, turned inward. And Derek was an interruption.
He almost backed out. Almost. But the memory of Peter’s laugh, Nate’s lingering mark… and the slick, insistent pulse between his legs, pushed him forward. He needed this. Needed the oblivion, the surrender. Needed to be used, on his terms, for once. Maybe here, with Dylan, it wouldn’t feel like being passed around. Maybe it would just feel like… relief.
He stepped inside, letting the door sigh shut behind him. The soft click finally made Dylan glance up. His eyes, a startlingly clear hazel behind the glasses, met Derek’s. No surprise, just a slow, assessing focus. He pulled one headphone away from his ear, letting it rest on his neck. The tapping stopped.
"Hey." Derek’s voice came out rough. He cleared his throat.
Dylan just looked at him. Didn’t speak. His gaze traveled down Derek’s frame, taking in the rumpled t-shirt, the bare legs, the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbones, the unmistakable tension thrumming through him. His expression remained unreadable, but his scent, clean and deep like cedar and cold stone, seemed to sharpen, filling the space between them.
Derek walked further in, the plush rug soft under his feet. He stopped a few feet from the desk. "Heard you were grinding on that thermo paper." He tried for his usual dry tone, but it fell flat, edged with nerves.
Dylan’s gaze flicked back to his screen for a second, then returned to Derek. "Midterm." His voice was low, gravelly. A statement, not a complaint. He shifted slightly in the worn leather chair. "Loud downstairs."
"Yeah." Derek swallowed. "Too loud." He took another step, closing the distance until he stood beside the desk, looking down at the top of Dylan’s cap. The firelight caught the dark gold stubble along his strong jaw. The silence stretched, thick with the crackling fire and Derek’s own pounding heart. He could smell Dylan’s focus, the underlying edge of stress… and something else. Something warm and potent beneath the cedar.
He knew what he was here for. What was expected. What he needed. The slickness gathered, a familiar, embarrassing warmth. Derek didn’t hesitate. He lowered himself to his knees on the rug beside Dylan’s chair. The hardwood floor beneath the rug was unforgiving, a stark contrast to the soft fibers under his palms. His knees protested the position – still sore from being pinned under Nate, ground into by Peter. He ignored it.
Dylan watched him descend, his expression unchanged, but his knuckles whitened slightly where they gripped the armrests. His gaze, intense and direct, tracked Derek’s every movement. That potent scent spiked.
Derek reached for the worn denim covering Dylan’s lap. His fingers fumbled slightly with the button, the zip. His own breath hitched. He could already feel the heat, the solid thickness beneath the fabric. He tugged the jeans and boxers down just enough. Dylan’s cock sprang free, heavy and thick, already half-hard. Impressive girth, like Peter, but longer. Sleeker. Veins stood out under the flushed skin. Derek licked his suddenly dry lips.
He didn’t look up at Dylan’s face again. He didn’t need to. The heavy, expectant silence, the crackle of the fire, the sheer presence of the Alpha beside him was enough. He leaned forward, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He took a breath, inhaling Dylan’s unique, clean Alpha scent mixed with the undeniable musk of his arousal. Then he opened his mouth and took the broad head between his lips.
A low, involuntary rumble vibrated in Dylan’s chest. Not a growl, exactly. Deeper. More resonant. Approval. Acknowledgement. Derek moaned softly around the thick intrusion, the vibration earning another low rumble. He pushed forward, sinking deeper, letting the hard length stretch his lips obscenely wide. He relaxed his jaw, used his tongue, swirling it around the sensitive ridge, pressing flat against the thick vein running underneath. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking firmly as he pulled back, then sank down again, taking more this time. His throat opened, accepting the intrusion, the stretch.
Dylan’s hand moved. Slowly. It settled on top of Derek’s head, not gripping, not forcing. Just resting heavily. His fingers, long and strong, carded through Derek’s jet-black hair, pushing it back from his damp forehead. The touch was startlingly gentle. Undemanding. Derek moaned again, the sound muffled and wet. He shifted his knees, trying to find a better angle on the hard floor, focusing entirely on the task. On the taste of salt and skin, the heavy weight on his tongue, the slow, deep slide as he worked. He used every bit of skill he possessed – swirling, laving the underside, sucking hard on the way up, taking him deep on the way down, letting his throat flutter around the tip. His own neglected cock throbbed, trapped against his thigh. Slick seeped onto the rug beneath him.
Dylan remained still. Utterly still, save for the slow, rhythmic stroking of Derek’s hair and the steady rise and fall of his chest. His breathing deepened, harsher now. The low rumble in his chest became a constant vibration Derek could feel through his skull. The fingers in his hair tightened incrementally, not painfully, but possessively. Anchoring him. Derek lost himself in the rhythm, the sensory overload, the simple act of serving. Forgetting Nate’s fury, Peter’s smirk, the brothers waiting downstairs. Here, it was just the heat, the taste, the weight, the fire’s crackle, and Dylan’s silent, overwhelming presence. His jaw ached, his knees screamed, but the slick pulsed, warm and insistent. He pushed down further, taking Dylan as deep as he could, his nose pressed against the coarse hair at the base, breathing in the intoxicating scent. Dylan’s hips lifted off the chair a fraction, a silent demand for more. Derek gave it.
The rhythm changed. Dylan’s breaths were ragged gasps now. The hand in Derek’s hair fisted, holding him firmly in place, not painfully, but with absolute control. The low rumble escalated into a guttural groan that seemed to shake the chair. Derek felt the thick pulse on the back of his tongue, the hot, salty flood filling his mouth. He swallowed instinctively, working Dylan through it, milking him with his lips and tongue until every pulse subsided, until the grip in his hair eased from iron to a heavy, warm weight.
Derek stayed there for a moment, resting his forehead against Dylan’s thigh, catching his own breath, the taste lingering. Dylan’s hand slowly unclenched, his fingers resuming that gentle, almost absent-minded stroking through Derek’s hair. The silence returned, filled only by the crackling fire and their mingled breathing. The tension that had radiated from Dylan earlier was gone, replaced by a deep, sated stillness. Derek closed his eyes. For a fleeting second, it felt… peaceful. Not just relief, but something else. Something quiet.
"Get up." Dylan’s voice was rough, quieter than before, but clear in the quiet room. It wasn’t an order barked like Nate’s or Peter’s. It was… instruction.
Derek pulled back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up, his own arousal a persistent throb between his legs. Dylan was looking down at him, his hazel eyes unreadable in the firelight. He’d pushed his reading glasses up onto his head, dislodging his baseball cap slightly. His gaze held Derek’s for a long moment, intense and unnerving.
"Floor’s hard," Dylan stated. He nodded towards the king-sized bed, large and inviting on the other side of the fireplace, its thick quilt neatly turned down. "Bed’s more comfortable." He paused, his thumb brushing almost absently against the shell of Derek’s ear. "If you need to kneel."
Derek froze. The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t a demand. They were an observation. An offer? But the implication slammed into him. Dylan knew. Knew what Derek was here for. Knew why he’d come. Knew about Nate, Peter, the others. Knew about the ache in his knees. Knew about the slick. Knew everything. And Derek, kneeling there with the taste of Dylan still on his tongue, felt utterly, terrifyingly seen. The fragile sense of peace shattered. The fire’s warmth suddenly felt stifling. Dylan’s gaze didn’t waver, stripping Derek bare in a way the others never had. His fingers tightened in Derek's hair, not painfully, but with a possessiveness that felt suddenly, dangerously intimate. "Go on," Dylan murmured, his voice a low thrum in the firelit silence. The command hung in the air, heavier than any growl. Derek's breath caught. The bed loomed, a promise and a sentence. He was trapped by that unwavering stare, the scent of pine and satisfaction, and the terrifying understanding in Dylan's quiet eyes.
He was trapped by that unwavering stare, the scent of pine and satisfaction, and the terrifying understanding in Dylan's quiet eyes. Dylan’s thumb brushed his jawline, a slow, deliberate stroke that sent a shiver down Derek’s spine. The command hung heavy, unspoken but absolute. "Go on."
Derek pushed himself up, his knees protesting the sudden movement. He walked the short distance to the king-sized bed, the thick rug soft underfoot, the scent of clean cotton mixing with woodsmoke. He stopped at the edge, the quilt cool against his shins.
His fingers trembled slightly as he grabbed the hem of his worn t-shirt. He pulled it off over his head in one swift motion, letting it fall silently to the floor. The firelight played across his bare chest, highlighting the lean muscle and the faint sheen of sweat. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and briefs, pushing them down his legs, stepping out of them. Cool air brushed his exposed skin, making his cock twitch, already hard, already slick gathering warm between his thighs. He felt intensely vulnerable, standing naked before Dylan, who hadn’t moved from the chair.
“Comfortable,” Dylan stated again, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. His gaze, intense and burning, swept over Derek’s body, lingering. “Kneel.”
Derek obeyed. He climbed onto the firm mattress, the quilt soft beneath his knees. He settled back on his heels, thighs slightly spread, spine straight. He kept his eyes lowered for a second, focusing on the worn wooden floorboards visible past the rug, before forcing himself to look back at Dylan. The Alpha finally moved. He pushed himself up from the leather chair with a controlled grace, shedding his hoodie, leaving only a thin grey t-shirt. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as he approached the bed, his shadow stretching long in the firelight. He stopped right in front of Derek.
“Look at you,” Dylan murmured, his voice thick. He reached out, his large, warm hand cupping Derek’s cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing Derek’s lower lip. His other hand slid possessively down Derek’s back, fingers tracing the curve of his spine, dipping lower to squeeze the firm swell of his ass. “Always ready.” His fingers found Derek’s slick entrance, circling, testing the give. Derek gasped, arching into the touch, a low moan escaping him as Dylan’s finger slid easily inside, hot and thick. “Wet already. For me.”
“Yeah,” Derek breathed, pushing back against the intrusion, the stretch familiar and welcoming. “Always.” Dylan added a second finger, scissoring gently, drawing another choked gasp from Derek. He leaned down, his broad frame blocking the firelight as his mouth captured Derek’s in a rough, claiming kiss. It wasn't gentle; it was demanding, all tongue and heat and the faint taste of coffee and something uniquely Dylan. Derek moaned into it, opening for him, hands coming up to grip Dylan’s biceps through the thin cotton, the muscle hard and unyielding beneath his fingers. Dylan’s fingers curled inside him, finding that spot, and Derek cried out against his mouth, hips jerking involuntarily.
Dylan pulled his fingers free, leaving Derek empty and aching. He straightened, his eyes dark with intent in the flickering light. He pushed his sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free his cock, already fully hard, thick and flushed. He gripped himself, giving a slow, deliberate stroke, his gaze locked on Derek’s. “Turn around,” he ordered, his voice rough. “Hands and knees.”
Derek scrambled to obey, the command sending a fresh pulse of slickness. He turned, presenting himself, bracing his hands on the soft quilt, head down. He heard the rustle of fabric as Dylan shed his sweatpants completely. The bed dipped heavily behind him. Dylan’s large, warm hands gripped his hips, fingers digging in possessively. The broad, slick head of Dylan’s cock pressed against Derek’s entrance, blunt and insistent. There was no preamble, no slow tease. Dylan pushed forward, sinking deep in one smooth, powerful stroke that stole Derek’s breath.
“Fuck!” Derek gasped, fingers scrabbling at the quilt as he was filled, stretched wide. Dylan bottomed out, a low groan rumbling from his chest. He held still for a heartbeat, buried deep, letting Derek adjust to the sheer girth, the overwhelming sense of being claimed. Then he pulled back almost all the way and slammed home again, setting a brutal, relentless rhythm. Each powerful thrust drove Derek forward, knocked the air from his lungs. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, punctuated by Derek’s ragged gasps and Dylan’s guttural growls. Dylan’s grip on Derek’s hips was iron, controlling his movements, holding him in place to take every inch.
“Take it,” Dylan growled, his voice thick with exertion. He leaned over Derek, covering his back, one hand leaving his hip to fist tightly in Derek’s dark hair, pulling his head back. His mouth found Derek’s neck, sucking a bruising mark into the skin. “Just take it.” The pace increased, becoming punishing. Derek felt the slick gush with every inward drive, making the slide easier, hotter. He pushed back, meeting Dylan thrust for thrust, lost in the raw, animalistic drive, the sheer physicality of it. The world narrowed to the bed, the firelight, the scent of sex and pine, and the deep, relentless pounding that drove every other thought from his mind. Dylan’s teeth grazed his shoulder, a sharp sting that made Derek cry out, clenching hard around the thick cock sheathed inside him. Dylan groaned, the sound ripped from his throat, his hips stuttering. “Gonna come.” His voice was strained, ragged. He drove deep one last time, grinding hard, and Derek felt the hot, liquid pulse deep inside him, the rhythmic throb against his walls. Dylan stayed buried, shuddering, his breath hot on Derek’s neck, his grip on hair and hip unrelenting as he emptied himself.
Slowly, the tension bled out of Dylan. He released Derek’s hair, his hand smoothing down Derek’s sweat-slicked back as he softened inside him. He pulled out slowly, the loss drawing a soft whimper from Derek who collapsed onto his forearms, spent. Dylan rolled onto his back beside him, breathing heavily. The fire crackled, the only sound for a moment. Derek turned his head, resting his cheek on the quilt, looking at Dylan’s profile. The baseball cap was still firmly in place, shadowing his eyes.
“Ride me,” Dylan said suddenly, his voice rough but calm. He spread his legs slightly, patting his thigh. “Want to see you.”
Derek pushed himself up, wincing slightly at the ache in his limbs, the liquid warmth leaking from him. He moved shakily, straddling Dylan’s powerful thighs. Dylan’s cock, already stirring again, lay thick against his stomach. Derek reached down, positioning himself, sinking down slowly. He gasped as Dylan filled him again, a different stretch this time, deeper somehow. He braced his hands on Dylan’s solid chest, finding his rhythm, rising and falling. Dylan watched him, his hazel eyes intense beneath the cap’s brim, his hands settling on Derek’s hips, guiding, encouraging.
“That’s it,” Dylan murmured, his voice low and approving. His hands slid up Derek’s sides, mapping the lean muscle. “Use me.” Derek moved faster, grinding down, chasing the friction, the delicious fullness. He threw his head back, gasping, lost in the sensations coiling tight in his belly. Dylan’s grip tightened, helping him lift and sink, driving him down harder. “Feels good?” Dylan asked, his thumbs brushing Derek’s nipples, making him jolt.
“Fuck, yes,” Derek choked out, the pace becoming frantic. He could feel Dylan hardening even more inside him, the thick length rubbing against his prostate with every drop. He leaned forward slightly, bracing his hands on the pillow beside Dylan’s head, needing leverage. His eyes locked onto the baseball cap. Without thinking, driven by a sudden, fierce impulse, Derek reached up. His fingers slid under the stiff brim. He lifted the cap off Dylan’s head, tossing it aside onto the rumpled quilt.
Dylan’s dark golden hair, slightly damp with sweat, was revealed, unexpectedly soft-looking. Derek’s gaze met Dylan’s. A flicker of surprise, then something deeper, warmer, passed through the Alpha’s eyes. Derek didn’t hesitate. He sank his fingers into Dylan’s hair, finding it thick and soft, just as he’d imagined. He leaned down, his mouth seeking Dylan’s. The kiss was different this time. Less claiming, more searching. Dylan’s hands moved from Derek’s hips to cup his face, holding him gently as their lips moved together, slower, deeper. Derek moaned into the kiss, tangling his fingers tighter in Dylan’s hair, grinding down hard as Dylan thrust up to meet him. The dual sensations – the deep, stretching fullness and the soft, consuming kiss – were overwhelming. Derek broke the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against Dylan’s, breathing raggedly. “Dylan…”
“Come on, Derek,” Dylan urged, his voice rough but gentle. His hands slid down to grip Derek’s ass, pulling him down firmly onto each upward thrust. “Let go.” He leaned up, capturing Derek’s mouth again, his tongue sliding against Derek’s, swallowing his gasps. Derek felt the tension snap. He cried out against Dylan’s lips as his orgasm ripped through him, white-hot and shattering, clenching hard around Dylan’s cock. Dylan groaned into his mouth, his hips bucking erratically as he followed, spilling deep inside Derek again, the hot flood triggering aftershocks that made Derek shudder.
They stayed like that for long moments, Derek collapsed onto Dylan’s chest, their breaths mingling, sweat-slick skin sticking together. Dylan’s arms came around him loosely, one hand absently stroking the damp hair at the nape of Derek’s neck. The fire popped. Derek listened to the strong, steady beat of Dylan’s heart beneath his ear, felt the warm weight of Dylan’s hand on his back. The relentless ache, the frantic need to be filled, had finally subsided, replaced by a bone-deep lethargy and a strange, quiet warmth. Dylan shifted slightly beneath him, turning them both onto their sides, keeping Derek gathered close against him. Derek’s head rested on Dylan’s bicep. Dylan pulled the edge of the quilt up over them both. His other hand traced idle patterns on Derek’s back, over the curve of his shoulder blade, down his spine. The touch was oddly soothing. Gentle. Possessive, but not demanding.
Derek closed his eyes. He could smell Dylan on his skin, taste him on his tongue. Feel the slow, deep throb where they were still joined. It should feel like just another frat brother, another turn. But Dylan’s quiet strength, the unexpected tenderness after the ferocity, the way his fingers kept moving softly on Derek’s skin… it felt different. Dangerous. Derek pressed his face into the crook of Dylan’s neck, inhaling the clean scent of him beneath the sweat and sex. The silence stretched, comfortable now. Safe. The understanding in Dylan’s eyes earlier hadn’t felt terrifying anymore. It just felt… known. Exhaustion pulled at him, heavy and deep. The distant party noise was gone. Only the fire murmured. Dylan’s breathing evened out, deepening. His hand stilled on Derek’s back, resting heavily. Derek relaxed into the warmth, the solid presence, the unfamiliar feeling of being held. He drifted, the world narrowing to the rise and fall of Dylan’s chest and the quiet crackle of the dying fire.