Chapter 12: Relentless Heat
The reprieve was a lie. It lasted maybe twenty minutes, a shallow pool of stillness in which Hyukjae floated, awareness seeping back in drips and drabs. The ache between his legs was a deep, throbbing presence. The smell of them—sex, sweat, Alpha, Omega in distress—was so thick in the still room he could taste it on his tongue.
Then it came again. Not a wave this time, but a swift, inward punch of heat that clenched his stomach and wrung a pathetic sound from his throat.
A whine. High and desperate.
From behind him, where Donghae had been a solid wall of exhausted warmth, came a sharp inhalation. A predatory stillness. Then a low, resonant growl that vibrated through the mattress into Hyukjae’s bones.
“Fuck.” The word was bitten off, ragged. A calloused hand slid over Hyukjae’s hip, down the curve of his ass, dipping into the crease. The touch came away wet. Donghae brought his fingers to Hyukjae’s lips. “Taste it. You’re dripping again. Soaking the fucking sheets.”
Hyukjae obeyed, his tongue flicking out to lap at his own slick, salty and musky on Donghae’s skin. The act itself was degrading. It sent another violent shudder through him.
Before he could process it, hands were on him, rolling him, manhandling his exhausted limbs. He was shoved onto his hands and knees, the position instinctively submissive, his back arched, his ass in the air. The cool air of the room—had it gotten hotter?—hit his wet, exposed hole and he clenched around nothing, a fresh trickle of slick betraying his need.
He heard the tear of a foil packet. A flicker of distant, rational thought: He’s using a condom. Why? It was snuffed out by the blunt, hot pressure nudging against him.
There was no warning. No gentle push. Donghae’s hands gripped the sharp points of Hyukjae’s hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and he slammed home.
Hyukjae’s cry was choked, swallowed by the pillow his face was buried in. The intrusion was brutal, a splitting, burning stretch that bordered on true pain. He was too sensitive, too raw from the last round, and Donghae was too big, too impatient. The condom felt strange, a slight barrier, but it did nothing to mitigate the sheer, overwhelming size of him.
“Tight,” Donghae gritted out, his voice strained, as if he was holding himself back by a thread. “So fucking tight and wet. Like you were made for this. For taking my cock.”
He didn’t wait for Hyukjae to adjust. He set a punishing pace from the first thrust, a hard, driving rhythm that rocked Hyukjae forward with every snap of his hips. The sound was obscene: wet, slapping flesh, the creak of the bed, their ragged breaths.
Hyukjae couldn’t think. He could only feel. The drag and burn inside him, the jolt of pleasure-pain that sparked where Donghae’s cockhead struck something deep. His own dick, hard and neglected, swung beneath him, leaking a steady patter onto the rumpled duvet.
“Look at you,” Donghae snarled, one hand leaving Hyukjae’s hip to fist in his sweat-damp hair, yanking his head back. The arch of his spine deepened, changing the angle, and Donghae’s next thrust punched a real scream from Hyukjae’s lungs. “Look at this pretty Omega hole, swallowing me whole. Gaping for it. Begging for it without saying a goddamn word.”
The filthy talk, the possession in his tone, it should have shamed Hyukjae. Instead, it coiled the heat in his gut tighter. He was a animal. A thing. A vessel. The simplification was a relief.
“Donghae—please—I can’t—”
“You can. You are.” Donghae’s thrusts became erratic, harder, deeper. The hand in his hair was achingly tender for a second, then tightened again. “Come for me. Come on my cock like the desperate little thing you are.”
It was the permission, the command, that did it. The coil snapped. Orgasm ripped through Hyukjae with no touch to his own cock, a raw, convulsive clenching that milked the length inside him. He saw white, his vision tunneling, his cries muffled by the bedding.
His violent constriction was the final trigger. Donghae roared, a raw Alpha sound of conquest, and drove in one last, searing time, burying himself to the hilt as he pulsed within the confines of the condom. Hyukjae could feel the hot jumps, the imagined fill, and a weak, secondary shiver wracked his spent body.
They collapsed together, a heap of overheated limbs and sweat-slick skin. Donghae rolled them, taking his weight off but keeping Hyukjae pulled back against his chest, his softening cock still sheathed inside him. The condom felt swollen, alien. Hyukjae whimpered at the minor discomfort.
“Shhh,” Donghae murmured into his hair, his breath hot. His arms were a vise, but his voice had lost its growling edge. It was just tired. Human. “Just a minute.”
After a few long breaths, Donghae pulled out. The condom was knotted and discarded over the side of the bed with a wet, careless flick. The absence was immediate, a hollow, aching emptiness. Hyukjae trembled.
“Water,” Donghae said, as if to himself. He extricated himself and padded, naked, to the en-suite. Hyukjae heard the tap run. He didn’t move. He felt liquid, boneless, yet the undercurrent of heat was still there, a low-grade fever in his blood. It wasn’t over.
Donghae returned with a glass. He didn’t hand it to Hyukjae. He sat on the edge of the bed, hauled him up against his side, and held the glass to his lips. “Drink. You’re dehydrated.”
The water was cool, a shocking benediction on his parched throat. He drank greedily, water spilling down his chin. Donghae wiped it away with his thumb, a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it made Hyukjae’s eyes burn.
“The AC died,” Donghae said quietly, looking at the ceiling vent, which was silent. “Probably an hour ago. Explains why it feels like a swamp in here.”
That explained the oppressive, sticky heat that had little to do with his biology. The outside world was intruding, broken and mundane.
“The building manager will fix it in the morning,” Donghae continued, his hand stroking up and down Hyukjae’s arm. “Nothing to do until then.”
Nothing to do. The words hung in the humid air. Hyukjae knew what they meant. There was nothing to do but ride this out. Together. In this sauna of silk and memory.
His body gave another subtle, treacherous clench. A fresh bead of slick escaped him. Donghae went very still beside him. He’d felt it.
“Those suppressants you were on,” Donghae said, his voice carefully neutral. “How long were they faulty?”
Hyukjae shut his eyes. “I don’t know. A few months. Maybe… six? They’d take the edge off. Make it manageable. I could still teach.”
“You danced through your heats?” There was something new in Donghae’s tone. Not anger. Something sharper.
“I had to work.”
A long silence stretched. The city lights painted slow-moving shapes on the ceiling.
“This heat… it’s a backlog,” Donghae finally said, the clinical words at odds with the scene around them. “Your body is making up for lost time. It’s going to be intense. And long.” He shifted, turning to look down at Hyukjae. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools in the gloom. “You understand that? This isn’t a normal cycle.”
Hyukjae nodded, a minute movement. He understood. He was in the eye of a storm his own negligence had created, and the only shelter was the man currently holding him. A man he’d craved from afar, who now knew the most humiliating, raw truth of him.
Donghae leaned down. For a second, Hyukjae thought he would kiss him. Instead, he pressed his forehead to Hyukjae’s, a gesture of startling intimacy. His breath was warm.
“Then we don’t fight it,” Donghae whispered. “We don’t manage it. We let it have us. All of it.”
He pulled back, his gaze sweeping over Hyukjae’s wrecked form. The tenderness evaporated, replaced by that familiar, hungry intensity. The heat in Hyukjae’s blood surged in answer.
“On your back,” Donghae said, his voice dropping back into that graveled command. “I want to see your face when the next one hits.”