Chapter 34: Morning Ride
The first thing he felt was warmth. A solid, heavy line of heat along his back, an arm like an iron band draped over his ribs. Taichi stirred, consciousness seeping in like dawn light. He was curled on his side, tucked against Yamato’s chest. Their legs were tangled, Yamato’s thigh shoved between his own. The smells hit him next—dried sweat, sex, the musky, pine-and-iron scent of the alpha saturating the sheets, and beneath it, his own cinnamon-sharp aroma, changed somehow. Mingled.
Memory followed. The bar. The ring. The knot.
He shifted slightly and felt the evidence of it. Yamato’s cock, soft now and spent, was still nestled inside him, the deflated knot a mere ghost of its former size. A faint, sticky ache lingered in his muscles, a pleasant soreness. But his own body was already stirring, betraying him. His cock was hard, a hot, insistent pressure against the firm muscle of Yamato’s thigh.
A low thrum of need, sharp and sudden, pulsed through him. It wasn’t the blind urgency of heat; it was simpler, greedier. He wanted the fullness back. He wanted the control.
He opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through the small attic window, painting gold stripes across the rumpled embroidered silk of the bedspread. Dust motes danced in the beams. From below, the familiar, muted sounds of the tavern beginning its day—a chair scraping, a barrel rolling—filtered up through the floorboards. His tavern. His domain. And in his bed, an alpha.
Yamato breathed deeply, evenly, still asleep. His face in repose was younger, the usual sharp confidence softened. Taichi studied the line of his jaw, the pale gold of his lashes against his skin.
Then he moved.
With careful, deliberate slowness, he extricated himself from Yamato’s hold. The alpha made a low, unconscious sound of protest, his arm tightening for a second before going slack. Taichi turned within the circle of his arms, facing him. He swung a leg over Yamato’s hips, straddling him, the sheets pooling around his waist. The movement made Yamato’s softened cock slip free, and Taichi felt a ridiculous, empty clench at the loss.
He settled his weight, his own hard length pressed against Yamato’s stomach. He leaned down, his messy brown hair falling forward, and put his lips to the alpha’s ear. He nipped the lobe, not gently.
“Wake up,” he whispered, his voice gravelly with sleep and intent.
Yamato’s breathing hitched. His eyes didn’t open.
Taichi ground his hips down in a slow, filthy circle, the friction sparking along his nerves. He bit the ear again, a little harder. “I said wake up, you lazy bastard.”
Blue eyes flew open, clouded with sleep for only a heartbeat before they darkened, sharpened, focused entirely on him. Hunger, immediate and volcanic, ignited in their depths. Yamato’s hands came up, fingers digging into the flesh of Taichi’s hips, anchoring him.
“Taichi,” he rasped.
“I’m going to ride you,” Taichi said, the words leaving his mouth low and certain, “until you can’t remember your own fucking name.”
A slow, feral smile spread across Yamato’s face. “Is that a promise, brewer?”
Instead of answering, Taichi reached between them. His fingers wrapped around Yamato’s cock. It was thickening rapidly under his touch, filling out, becoming the heavy, formidable weight he remembered. He gave it a few rough strokes, feeling the vein pulse under his thumb, spreading the bead of pre-cum that already gleamed at the tip.
He was slick. His body, remembering, anticipating, had begun to prepare the moment he woke. He guided the broad head to his entrance, notching it there. He kept his eyes locked on Yamato’s.
Then he sank down.
It wasn’t fast. It was a slow, agonizing descent, a deliberate torture for them both. The stretch was breathtaking, a delicious, burning fullness that made the breath stutter in Taichi’s chest. He watched Yamato’s control fray. The alpha’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek, his knuckles white where he gripped Taichi’s hips. His cock speared Taichi open inch by inexorable inch, until Taichi was seated fully, impaled, Yamato’s pelvis pressed hard against his ass.
A guttural sound was torn from Yamato’s throat. “Fuck. You feel… you feel like heaven.”
Taichi’s head fell back, a choked moan escaping him. He braced his hands on Yamato’s chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle and the ridges of old scars under his palms. He gave himself a moment, letting his body adjust, reveling in the sheer, overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled.
Then he moved.
He rose up, almost until the tip threatened to slip free, then slammed back down. The impact jolted through him, a shock of pure pleasure. Yamato’s hips bucked up to meet him, driving even deeper.
“Yes,” Taichi hissed. “Like that.”
He set a ruthless, driving rhythm. Up and down, taking Yamato’s cock deep into his body with each forceful plunge. The bed, sturdy as it was, began to protest, its wooden frame creaking in a sharp, steady counterpoint to the wet, slapping sounds of their joining. His own cock, trapped between their bodies, leaked profusely, smearing pre-cum across Yamato’s abdomen.
“Touch yourself,” Yamato growled, his voice strained. “Let me see you.”
Taichi obeyed, one hand leaving Yamato’s chest to wrap around his own length. He stroked in time with his rides, a tight, frantic fist. His other hand raked down Yamato’s chest, nails leaving faint red trails over the scars.
“You’re so deep,” Taichi gasped, his rhythm becoming more erratic, more desperate. “Gods, you’re—ah!—right there…”
Yamato’s hands slid from his hips to clutch his ass, fingers spreading him open, helping to guide the brutal pace. “Who do you belong to, Taichi?” The question was rough, primal.
“Fuck you,” Taichi panted, fucking himself harder on Yamato’s cock, his own strokes speeding. “I belong to this tavern. To my barrels.”
Yamato drove up particularly hard, nailing the spot that made Taichi see stars. “Liar. Say it.”
But Taichi was too close. The coil was winding too tight, a scream building in his lungs. His bravado fractured into pure, raw need. “Yamato—I’m gonna—”
“Come,” Yamato commanded, his own thrusts becoming punishing, uncontrollable. “Come all over me. Do it.”
The permission, the sheer dominance in the tone, shattered him. Taichi’s orgasm ripped through him with violent intensity. He cried out, a broken, wordless sound, as his release shot in thick, hot pulses across Yamato’s stomach and chest, his body clamping down viscously around the alpha’s cock.
The tight, convulsing clutch was too much. Yamato roared, his hips stuttering off the mattress as he thrust up one final, grinding time. Taichi felt the hot, sudden rush as Yamato came inside him, flooding his depths, the alpha’s own release triggered by Taichi’s. They stayed locked together, Yamato’s spend painting his insides, as the violent tremors subsided into aftershocks.
Taichi collapsed forward, his sweat-slicked chest meeting Yamato’s. He was panting, utterly spent, his face buried in the crook of Yamato’s neck. The scent there—alpha, his alpha, mixed with his own—was overpowering. Yamato’s arms came around him, holding him close, one hand buried in his hair.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breaths slowly settling, and the distant, mundane clatter from the tavern below. The world outside their sunlit nook continued, unaware.
Yamato’s lips moved against his temple. “My name is Sir Yamato of the Third Royal Vanguard,” he murmured, his voice a hoarse, satisfied rumble. “Just so you know for next time. You didn’t quite manage to make me forget it.”
A weak, breathless laugh shook Taichi’s shoulders. He didn’t have the energy for a retort. He shifted slightly, wincing at the new, familiar ache, and felt the warm trickle of Yamato’s spend escape him, a crude reminder. The wooden ring on his finger caught the sunlight, a simple band against Yamato’s skin.
He’d taken what he wanted. Again. And the terrifying, thrilling part was that Yamato had given it freely, had watched him with something like awe in his eyes as he’d taken it.
The bite on his neck, the permanent claim, still lingered as an unspoken question between them. But here, now, tangled and spent, the question felt less like a threat and more like a promise waiting for its moment. Taichi closed his eyes, and for the first time, didn’t bother to armor himself against the slow, warm drift back into sleep.