Chapter 3: Claimed
The world was a blur of heat and sound and slick, furious motion. His back was a raw ache against the hardwood floor, his pajama pants tangled around his ankles. Ram loomed above him, a dark, powerful silhouette against the red clock light, her thick thighs driving down onto him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs in short, sharp gasps.
Smack-smack-smack-smack.
The wet, rhythmic clap of flesh against flesh was obscenely loud in the quiet apartment, punctuated by her ragged panting and the creak of the floorboards. Her pussy was a scalding, vise-tight sheath around him, dripping, demanding, each furious plunge milking him deeper. She rode him like she was trying to break something, her huge ass landing with each descent, her claws—he realized with a distant shock—lightly scoring the skin of his chest through his thin shirt.
Her head lolled back, a string of saliva stretching from her muzzle to her chest. Then she collapsed forward, her massive breasts pressing against him, her hot, panting breath washing over his face. She didn’t kiss him so much as muzzle him, her wet tongue dragging a slobbery, inelegant stripe from his chin to his temple.
“Th-thank you,” she whimpered into his ear, the words slurry. “Fuck, thank you, thank you for your dick, you good, quiet—ah!—good dork.” Her hips never slowed. The gratitude was as shocking as the act itself, so utterly foreign to her usual brashness. She sounded drunk, airheaded, completely submerged in the biological haze.
Barnaby could only cling to her furred shoulders, his glasses miraculously still on but fogged, the world beyond them a smear of familiar bookshelves and his overturned reading lamp. This was his home. This was his quiet life. And it was being fucked into splinters by a shuddering, grateful beast of a woman.
Every nerve was screaming, overloaded. The musk was inside him now, coating his tongue, filling his lungs. His own body was betraying him, responding with a building pressure that had nothing to do with thought. He was a instrument being played, hard and fast, and the tune was winding tight, coiling in his base of his spine.
“Ram, I’m… I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” she snarled, her voice guttural. She slammed down, hilted him, and ground hard, a vicious circular twist that broke him. “C’mon, fill it up. Do it.”
With a choked cry that was half sob, he did. His spine arched off the floor as he pulsed deep inside her, a hot, helpless release that seemed to go on and on. She let out a satisfied, shuddering howl, her own body clamping around him in rhythmic waves, milking him dry.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Barnaby felt hollowed out, stunned, adrift on a sea of pheromones and shame and bewildering physical satisfaction.
The moment shattered. With a grunt, she pulled off him, a lewd, wet sound marking the separation. She swayed on her knees, still dripping, her green eyes still glassy but now fixed on him with a renewed, singular intent. She leaned forward, her teeth closing on the collar of his ruined pajama shirt.
A low growl vibrated through the fabric into his chest. Then she pulled.
“Up,” she commanded, the word muffled by cotton.
“W-wait, hold on—” he stammered, but she was already scrambling back, dragging him by his shirt. His legs, weak and trembling, tried to comply. He stumbled, nearly falling, the pants around his ankles a hobble. He kicked them off frantically as she hauled him toward the bedroom door, a desperate, naked librarian towed by a relentless canine in soaked cargo pants.
“More,” she rasped, pulling him into the dark of his own bedroom. “Not enough. Need more. Heat’s… it’s a long one. You’re in it now, Finch.”
She released his shirt and shoved him backward. He fell onto the mattress, the familiar comfort of his duvet now just another stage for this madness. She stood at the foot of the bed, clawing at the button of her pants, finally shucking them off. The soaked fabric hit the floor with a heavy slap. She was a magnificent, terrifying outline in the dark, all powerful curves and gleaming eyes.
She crawled onto the bed, the springs groaning in protest under her weight. She didn’t pounce this time. Instead, she straddled his thighs, leaning down to sniff at his chest, his neck, his softening cock. A rough, approving rumble came from her throat.
“You smell like me now,” she muttered, as if stating a fact. “All over you.” Her tongue lapped a broad, messy stripe across his pectoral. “Good.”
Barnaby lay still, his mind finally beginning to churn again through the fog. This wasn’t over. It was just intermission. The scent, the taste, the raw, aching need—it was a cycle, and he was trapped inside it. He thought of the quiet, the books, the hydrangeas. He thought of her whimper in the hallway. The ‘please’.
Ram settled her weight on him, not moving yet, just pinning him. Her heat radiated through him. She nuzzled into the crook of his neck with a sigh that was almost gentle.
“Just gimme a minute,” she slurred, the airheaded gratitude seeping back into her voice. “Then we go again. You’re a good guy. A real… a real lifesaver.”
Outside, the first grey light of dawn began to bleed around the edges of his window blinds. Inside, Barnaby stared at the ceiling, one hand coming to rest, almost unconsciously, on the fur of her powerful, trembling back. He was in it now. For the long haul.