"Dean," Arion managed, his hands flexing against Dean's grip. "Gods, Dean."
The rut was enhancing every sensation to a level that made Arion lose his mind. He felt Dean's walls clamping down rhythmically on his cock, warm and silky smooth.
Dean grinned, purple eyes shining with heat, his blonde hair clinging to his forehead. "Losing your words, husband? Or just your mind?"
Arion's only response was a guttural sound, half groan, half growl, as Dean deliberately clenched around him again. The scent of vetiver and mint-lemon was thick enough to taste, a heady cocktail of rut and heat that filled the room.
Dean leaned forward, the collar shifting against his throat. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice low and husky. "I want you to see who's doing this to you."
