Chapter 14: Mounted from Behind
The ride back from the Rusty Howl was a silent, charged thing. Yamato drove with a focused intensity, his knuckles pale on the steering wheel. The playful ribbing from the band had melted away, leaving behind a raw, exposed truth that seemed to vibrate in the enclosed space of the truck. Taichi watched the streetlights streak across Yamato’s face, illuminating the sharp planes and the tension in his jaw.
They didn’t speak. Words felt superfluous, dangerous even. The energy between them had shifted from the warm camaraderie of the bar into something denser, more volatile. Taichi could feel it coiling in his own gut, a responsive heat to the silent storm brewing beside him.
When Yamato turned onto the dark, winding road that led up to his isolated cabin, his breath hitched, just slightly. Taichi noticed. He noticed everything now.
The cabin was a dark silhouette against a sky choked with clouds, the usual welcoming glow from the windows absent. Yamato killed the engine, and the sudden quiet was profound, broken only by the whisper of the pines and the quick rhythm of Taichi’s own pulse.
“You okay?” Taichi finally asked, his voice too loud in the stillness.
Yamato’s head dropped forward, resting against the steering wheel. A shudder ran through him, long and deep. “It’s… close. The rut. Closer than I thought.” His voice was gravel, strained at the edges. “You should… you should probably go home, Tai.”
It was the last vestige of his control, a feeble offer made out of habit. Taichi heard the lie in it, the sheer, desperate want beneath the words. After tonight, after hearing nine years of secret history, the idea of leaving was absurd. An insult.
“No,” Taichi said, simple and final. He reached over, his fingers brushing the tense line of Yamato’s forearm. The muscle there jumped under his touch. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Yamato turned his head. His eyes, reflecting the scant moonlight, held a faint, luminous sheen that wasn’t human. The look was pure, unvarnished hunger. It should have been frightening. For Taichi, it was a match thrown on oil.
They moved to the door as one. Yamato fumbled with the key, his movements uncharacteristically clumsy. The second the lock clicked, Taichi pushed inside, a laugh bubbling up from his chest—a release of the night’s pent-up energy.
“Man, I can’t believe you wrote a whole song about my—” he began, turning around.
He didn’t finish.
The door slammed shut behind them, plunging the foyer into near-total darkness. A shape detached itself from the deeper shadows of the living room, moving with a silence that was utterly inhuman. It was low to the ground, a mass of concentrated power and intent.
Taichi had a fraction of a second to register the gleam of eyes, the hint of bared teeth, before the weight hit him.
It drove the air from his lungs in a hard whoosh. He was spun, bent double, and shoved forward. His stomach collided with the thick, worn arm of the heavy leather couch, his face mashed into the dusty, cool cushions. Denim ripped. A decisive tear, and then the rough drag of fabric as his jeans and boxers were yanked down to his ankles in one brutal, efficient motion.
The wolf’s body covered his, immense and searingly hot. It was heavier than Yamato, denser, a furnace of muscle and wild scent. Taichi’s mind short-circuited, then rebooted on a single, primal frequency.
“Fuck, Yamato—warn a guy,” he gasped, the words muffled by the leather. His cock, already half-hard from the anticipation, sprang to full, aching attention, trapped against the rough texture of the couch.
A response came—not words, but a hot, wet, broad stripe that dragged from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck. The tongue was rougher than a human’s, leaving a tingling, almost abrasive trail. Taichi shivered violently, a full-body convulsion of pure want.
The wolf huffed, a sound of impatient amusement. Its muzzle nudged between his ass cheeks, cold and wet. It sniffed, deeply, and then that same rough tongue was on him again, this time laving over his balls before zeroing in on his hole.
Taichi cried out, his fingers clawing at the couch. The sensation was obscene, electric. The tongue probed, insistently wet, circling and pressing against his entrance until the muscle yielded, letting the tip slip inside. It was an intrusion that was all slick pressure, a filthy, wonderful preview.
“Come on,” Taichi begged, arching his back, pushing his ass up into the beast’s face. “Don’t fucking tease. Just do it.”
The wolf withdrew its tongue. He heard the shift of weight, the scratch of claws on the wooden floor. Then he felt it—the blunt, solid press of something against him. Not a human cock. Thicker, longer, with a pronounced taper and a heavier weight beneath. The wolf’s cock. It nudged against his saliva-slicked hole, once, twice, a testing push that made Taichi’s vision blur.
It breached him on the third try.
There was no slow slide, no gentle stretch. The wolf drove forward with a single, powerful thrust of its hips, sheathing itself to the root in one devastating motion.
Taichi’s scream was swallowed by the cushion. The stretch was immense, a burning, glorious fullness that stole his breath. He was pinned, impaled, completely filled by an inhuman heat. For a second, there was only the shock of it, the overwhelming sensation of being taken.
Then the wolf began to move.
It was not lovemaking. It was claiming. It set a ruthless, piston-like rhythm, each thrust slamming Taichi’s body into the couch with enough force to shuffle it across the floorboards. The sound was brutal: the slap of fur and skin, Taichi’s choked grunts, the animal’s ragged pants. The knot, a swelling bulge at the base of its length, caught on his rim with every withdrawal, a stretching, tantalizing promise of what was to come.
“Harder,” Taichi snarled, the command ripped from him. He was unraveling, every nerve lit up. The pain had dissolved into a pure, white-hot pleasure, a feedback loop of sensation that centered on the brutal pistoning inside him.
The wolf obeyed. Its pace became frantic, savage. It fucked him with a raw, animalistic fury, its teeth finding the back of Taichi’s neck not to bite, but to hold, a grounding point in the maelstrom. The world narrowed to the relentless drive of that cock, the scrape of fur against his skin, the overwhelming scent of musk and sweat and wildness.
Taichi’s hand scrambled between his own body and the couch, finding his own leaking cock. He jerked himself in time with the wolf’s punishing rhythm, his strokes short and desperate. The pressure coiled, tighter and tighter, a spring ready to snap.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice a broken wreck. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”
The wolf’s thrusts became erratic, then stopped, buried impossibly deep. A low, rumbling growl vibrated through Taichi’s entire body, building in volume until it erupted into a raw, triumphant howl that shook the windowpanes. At the same moment, he felt the knot, now fully inflated, lock tight inside him, a swollen, impossible anchor.
The first jet of release inside him was scalding. Taichi convulsed, his own orgasm ripped from him as if the wolf’s climax had triggered his own. Thick stripes of cum spurted from his cock, soaking the leather beneath him as the wolf pumped its own seed deep into his core in powerful, continuous pulses. The feeling of being filled, of being locked together, of the hot spill inside him, tipped Taichi over another edge, a secondary, shaking release that left him sobbing into the cushion.
They collapsed together, a single heaving entity. The wolf’s weight settled fully on him, a crushing, comforting blanket. Its panting breaths were hot against his ear. Gradually, the beast’s tongue emerged again, not in lust, but in a rough, cleansing swipe across Taichi’s cheek, licking away the sweat and tears.
Taichi floated in a haze of spent sensation, full to the brim, physically wrecked. The knot held them fast, an intimate, unbreakable tether. In the dark, with the animal’s warmth surrounding him, he felt a peace so profound it bordered on holy. This was the other side of the secret. This was the wild, terrifying, glorious truth of the man he had always loved.
He reached a trembling hand back, his fingers sinking into the thick, coarse fur at the wolf’s shoulder. A final, contented sigh escaped him, and he let the darkness, fragrant with sex and pine and wild things, pull him under.