Chapter 3: Mating Runoff
The dawn was a cruel mistress. It stripped the room of the lantern’s forgiving glow, exposing the reality of tangled, come-stained sheets and the faint, purpling bruises on Derek’s skin. He awoke with Scott’s arm still a leaden weight across his waist, their bodies sticky and sealed together in places.
Scott stirred, his breath hitching. Derek felt him wake in stages: the slow, deliberate inhale that scented the air, the subtle tensing of muscle, the soft groan as reality reassembled itself. Scott’s hand flexed on Derek’s stomach.
“Hey,” Scott’s voice was sleep-rough, a low vibration against Derek’s spine.
“Hey.”
The word hung there, too simple for the cathedral of what had happened. Scott carefully disentangled himself. The loss of contact was a physical chill. Derek heard him pad across the tile floor, heard the faucet run. He didn’t turn over.
“We’re a mess,” Scott said, returning. He placed a glass of cool water on the nightstand. “Shower?”
Derek just nodded. Moving felt like a monumental task. Every muscle protested, but a deeper, internal ache was a constant reminder. He sat up slowly, the sheets pooling at his waist. He avoided Scott’s eyes, but he could feel them on him, tracing the bite marks, the dried streaks.
The walk through the cabana was silent. The salty morning breeze through the open windows did little to clear the dense, pheromone-rich air. The outdoor shower was tucked around the side, a semi-private enclosure of sun-bleached tile and concrete, open to a sliver of sky.
Scott turned the faucet. Water, warmed by the sun in its tank, cascaded down. He stepped under it first, tilting his head back, wetting his hair. He looked like some pagan god washed up on shore—all toned muscle and easy grace, even now.
Derek hesitated at the edge of the spray. Scott opened his eyes and held out a hand. It wasn’t a demand. It was an offer.
Derek took it. The water was a blessing, sluicing over him, washing away the physical evidence of the night. Scott picked up a bar of rough, citrus-scented soap. He worked it into a lather in his palms and began to wash Derek’s back. His hands were firm, methodical, kneading the tension from Derek’s shoulders, sweeping down the line of his spine.
It was so casually intimate that Derek’s throat tightened. This was worse than the sex. The sex could be blamed on biology, on pheromones, on a frenzied, animal need. This careful cleansing was deliberate. It spoke of care.
Scott’s hands slid around to Derek’s chest, soaping the dark hair there, skimming over his nipples. Derek leaned back against him, his head falling onto Scott’s shoulder. He was hard again. So was Scott. The water poured over them.
“See?” Scott murmured, his lips against Derek’s wet temple. His voice was light, trying for a joke. “Told you we needed to talk. Can’t even get clean.”
“Nothing to say,” Derek managed, but it was a weak protest. Scott’s soap-slick hand drifted lower, over the plane of his stomach, through the coarse trail of hair.
“Liar,” Scott said softly. His other arm banded across Derek’s chest, holding him secure. His fingers found Derek’s hole, still loose and tender from the night’s repeated invasions. Derek jolted. “You’re still so open.”
Scott didn’t thrust inside. He simply pressed the pad of his finger against the yielding rim, a slow, circular pressure. The water made the glide easy, almost deceptive. Pleasure, sharp and bright, lanced through Derek’s over-sensitized nerves. He groaned, his hands coming up to grip Scott’s forearm where it crossed his chest.
“Scott…”
“Just washing,” Scott breathed, but it was a taunt. He pushed the tip of his finger in, just the first knuckle, a gentle, stretching probe. Derek’s knees threatened to buckle. The duality was maddening—the cool water, the warm hand, the soothing massage and the filthy, deliberate penetration.
Scott added a second finger alongside the first. The stretch was a delicious burn. Derek panted, his head rolling back. He was completely encased by Scott, held upright by his strength, vulnerable to his touch. Scott scissored his fingers slowly, working the soap into him, the intimacy so profound it bordered on violation.
“You feel it, right?” Scott’s voice was tense now, the playful tone gone. “This… pull. It’s not just in here.” He pressed his fingers deeper, making Derek cry out. “It’s everywhere. When you’re in the room. When you’re pissed off. When you’re trying to be all broody and silent. It’s a fucking cord tied to my gut, Derek.”
He crooked his fingers, and stars exploded behind Derek’s eyelids. He was babbling, meaningless pleas and affirmations falling from his lips. The water beat down.
Then Scott’s mouth was on the side of his neck, not kissing, but searching. His teeth found the specific spot where neck met shoulder—the mating gland. It was swollen, sensitive, a dormant focal point of Derek’s new biology.
Scott’s fingers stilled inside him. His teeth clamped down.
It wasn’t a bite meant to break skin, not quite. It was a claiming pressure, a primal, physiological trigger.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.
Every nerve in Derek’s body fired at once. Pleasure, submission, completion—a tsunami of raw sensation obliterated all thought. His vision whited out. A broken, guttural sound was torn from his throat, part sob, part howl. His legs gave way entirely.
Scott held him up, his arm like an iron bar across his chest, his fingers still buried deep within him. The only things keeping Derek from crumpling to the wet concrete were Scott’s strength and the thick, insistent pressure of Scott’s cock pressing against the cleft of his ass.
“I’ve got you,” Scott gritted out, his own body shaking. He released the gland, laving the spot with his tongue. “I’ve got you. Breathe. Just breathe.”
Derek couldn’t. He was shuddering, coming completely untouched, his spend washing away instantly in the stream. The orgasm was wrenched from him, a seismic event that left him hollowed out and trembling.
Slowly, Scott withdrew his fingers. He turned Derek in his arms, facing him. Derek’s eyes were wide, unfocused.
“Look at me.”
Derek forced his gaze up. Scott’s eyes were blazing gold, his Alpha status blazing to the surface. The water plastered his dark hair to his skull.
“That,” Scott said, his voice raw. “That’s what it does to me. Seeing you like that. Knowing I can make you feel that. It’s fucking with my head, too.”
He kissed him, hard. It was a clash of teeth and desperation. Derek kissed back, his hands fisting in Scott’s hair, clinging to the only solid thing in a dissolving world.
When they broke apart, gasping, Scott framed Derek’s face with his hands. “The talking,” he said, water droplets catching on his lashes. “It’s not about last night. It’s about tomorrow. And the next day. This… thing between us. It’s not going away.”
Derek knew he was right. The cord Scott spoke of, it was tied to him, too. It had been pulling him toward this precipice since the change. Last night he’d fallen. Now he was just hanging in the air, waiting to see where he’d land.
He leaned his forehead against Scott’s. The water began to run cool.
“The pack gets back tonight,” Scott said quietly.
Reality, cold and unwelcome, rushed back in. The world existed beyond the tile walls. There were questions, appearances, hierarchies.
Derek finally found his voice, rough and used. “So we have today.”
A slow, relieved smile spread across Scott’s face. It was the smile of the boy he’d been, not just the Alpha he’d become. “Yeah. We have today.”
He reached behind Derek and turned off the water. The sudden silence was loud, filled only with their breathing and the distant crash of waves. They stood there dripping, in the suddenly stark morning light, the unspoken future stretching before them, vast and terrifying.
Scott picked up a towel and gently, meticulously, began to dry Derek off. Starting with his hair.
Starting with his hair.
The terrycloth was rough, absorbing the droplets from his dark strands with a quiet efficiency that felt somehow profound. Scott’s movements were methodical, gentle, as he worked the towel down Derek’s neck, over the slope of his shoulders. He blotted the water from the bite marks with a care that made Derek’s skin prickle.
Derek stood there, passively accepting the ministration, his mind a tangled knot of aftermath. The ghost of Scott’s teeth on his gland still throbbed, a deep, physiological echo that made his insides feel liquid. He watched Scott kneel to dry his legs, the Alpha’s focus absolute.
A strange clarity pierced the fog in his head. All night, all morning, it had been about what Scott could do to him. What he could take, what he could make Derek feel. The power of it was terrifying, addictive. But looking down at Scott now, seeing the concentrated furrow in his brow, Derek felt a different kind of pull.
It wasn’t submission. It was reciprocity.
“My turn,” Derek said, his voice scratchy from disuse.
Scott looked up, surprised. “Huh?”
“You heard me.” Derek took the damp towel from Scott’s hands. He tossed it onto a nearby wooden stool. The morning sun was climbing, warming the tile under their feet. “I’ve just been… receiving. I want to… I want to make you feel good, too.”
Scott’s expression shifted, surprise melting into something warmer, intrigued. He leaned back against the mosaic-tiled wall, the cool colors a stark backdrop for his tanned skin.“Yeah? You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.” Derek cut him off. He placed a hand on Scott’s chest, feeling the steady, strong heartbeat beneath his palm. “I want to.”
He let his hand slide down, over the defined abdominal muscles, through the dark, damp hair. He didn’t break eye contact as he wrapped his fingers around Scott’s thickness, already half-hard and responding instantly to his touch. Scott’s breath hitched, a soft inhalation that was louder than the distant waves.
Derek lowered himself to his knees on the sun-warmed concrete. The position felt different now. Not an act of supplication, but one of focused intent. He looked up the length of Scott’s body, meeting his gold-flecked gaze.
“Just… let me,” Derek murmured, more to himself than to Scott.
He didn’t start with his mouth. He used his hands first, learning the shape and weight of him, the silken skin over insistent hardness. He traced a vein with his thumb, reveling in the shudder it elicited. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the tip, a soft, closed-mouth kiss that tasted of clean skin and saltwater.
Scott made a low sound above him, his head tipping back against the tile with a soft thud.
Encouraged, Derek opened his mouth. He took him in slowly, an inch at a time, allowing his jaw to relax, his tongue to flatten and explore. The size was daunting, a reality he’d felt intimately inside him but was now a task for his mouth alone. He focused on the sensation—the smooth heat, the subtle pulse, the faint, musky scent that was purely Scott.
He established a rhythm, one hand working the base in tandem with the movements of his mouth. He used his tongue in long, deliberate strokes, swirling over the head with each retreat. He listened, his omega senses hyper-aware of every gasp, every swallowed groan, every twitch of muscle in Scott’s thighs.
“Derek…” Scott’s hand came down, not to guide or force, but to rest gently in his hair. The touch was feather-light, almost reverent. “Jesus.”
Derek redoubled his efforts. He took him deeper, relaxing his throat, accepting more. His eyes watered, but he pushed past the reflex, his own arousal a sharp, secondary thrill. This was control of a different kind. The power to unravel, to bring this immovable Alpha to his knees with nothing but his mouth.
He varied the pressure, alternating between deep, languid sucks and quicker, tighter passes of his lips. He hollowed his cheeks, creating a perfect, slick vacuum. He moaned around him, the vibration wringing a ragged curse from Scott.
Scott’s fingers tightened slightly in his hair. His hips gave a minute, involuntary jerk. “I’m… I’m close. You should—”
Derek didn’t pull away. He looked up, holding Scott’s blazing gaze, and took him all the way to the root. His nose pressed into the dark hair at the base. He swallowed, once, and that was all it took.
Scott came with a broken shout, his body bowing away from the wall. Derek stayed with him, swallowing steadily, taking everything he gave until Scott was spent, trembling, gently tugging him off.
Derek sat back on his heels, catching his breath. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Scott slid down the wall to kneel in front of him, his chest heaving. He looked utterly wrecked.
“That was…” Scott breathed, laughter and awe mixing in his voice. He cupped Derek’s face, his thumb stroking Derek’s cheekbone. “I have no words. That was…”
“Good?” Derek asked, a hint of his old, dry smirk touching his lips.
“A fucking religious experience,” Scott corrected, and then he was kissing him, deep and tasting of himself. It was messy and perfect. When they broke apart, Scott rested his forehead against Derek’s. “No one’s ever… okay. No one’s ever done that.”
The confession hung between them, fragile and significant. Derek had given him something new. The equilibrium shifted, just a little.
From inside the cabana, a phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand.Then another. The real world, impatient, was calling them back.