Arion moved backward with a slow, grinding drag that stole Dean's breath. The head of Arion's cock caught on the ring of his cervix from the inside, that tight muscle clinging to the ridge beneath the crown, and Dean felt every fraction of an inch like it was being carved into him.
Arion pushed forward again. Back into the wet, clenching tightness of his womb, and Dean's vision fractured at the edges.
His hands twisted in the sheets. His heels dug into the mattress.
"Arion—"
"Shh." Arion's voice had gone rough, stripped of its usual composure. His hips began to move in short, deep strokes that never fully withdrew, that kept the head of his cock trapped inside Dean's cervix so that each thrust was a fresh push through that impossibly tight opening. "I know. I know."
