Moon Spell

“Bellamy, what are you…?”Ashwood groaned, his green eyes changing to liquid gold as Bellamy’s intention registered, igniting the spark between them. “I’m filthy from our run.”

“Need I remind you that your scent is my aphrodisiac?” Bellamy growled. It was the curse of being fated mates. “Apparently, it’s why I desire you just like this.” He took a step back to put some distance between them because he knew this was a terrible idea. But Ashwood’s hand reached out and encircled his wrist.

“Wait, please…I want…” He whimpered, which made Bellamy’s pulse tick up. “I always imagined you, just like this…those times in the haberdashery.”

“Ashwood, you know this is not…” He shook his head. “It can only be about our physical needs.”

“Of course. I know that,” Ashwood said through gritted teeth. “You’ve made it abundantly clear on more than one occasion.”

Their eyes connected, and Ashwood’s fiery gaze dared him to make the next move, to follow through on his desires. For both of them.

Bellamy shut out his conflicted thoughts, transporting himself to that serene place inside him, the one his wolf had found in the forest. He took a deep breath and gave himself permission, just this once, to allow his instincts to take hold.

The truth was he wanted Ashwood—to smell him and taste him and be inside him—like no one he’d ever wanted before. Perhaps it was because they had unfinished business, or perhaps it was because they were fated. Or maybe because Ashwood had given him the gift of life, had helped him arouse his wolf, and he could show him his appreciation, using his body and his mouth. Give him the release he appeared to be dying for if his protruding cock was any indication.

Their gazes clashed again, and as if Ashwood knew Bellamy needed some prompting—and permission—he tugged his shirt from his shoulders and dropped it to the floor. The odor of earth and pine emanated from his skin, and Bellamy’s eyes nearly rolled back, it was such a profoundly intimate scent to him now.

Bellamy closed the distance between them, connecting their mouths and burrowing his fingers in Ashwood’s hair, holding him exactly where he wanted him. Their tongues battled for dominance until Ashwood conceded, allowing Bellamy to take over the kiss. And Bellamy loved everything about it, loved hemming him in and pulling whimpers and moans from his throat as he licked and nibbled on his lips and sucked on his tongue.

Bellamy palmed Ashwood’s erect cock through his breeches and watched his breath shudder out of him and his eyes close in relief. Angling his head downward, he lashed his tongue against Ashwood’s rigid nipples, one and then the other, and Ashwood gasped, his eyes flying open.

“You’re certainly not the reticent lad of our yesteryears,” Ashwood said, groaning.

Bellamy stared at him, remembering his timidness in the back of the haberdashery. “You’ll do well not to forget it.”

Ashwood sighed. “Never.”

Bellamy’s fingers fumbled over Ashwood’s placket, practically ripping the buttons apart. When he finally freed his stiff cock, he gripped it and stroked him in a tight fist. His own prick jutted against the fabric of his breeches, but he ignored it for now. Soon enough he’d have sweet relief.

“Please,” Ashwood ground out, but Bellamy was enjoying the torment as he reached down to grip his bollocks, the hairs coarse and wiry. He was going to make him pay for everything he’d done by drawing the pleasure out moment by torturous moment. It was only right.

He dragged the foreskin down to reveal his bulging red tip, then bent forward to lick around the glans. Though it was an awkward angle, Ashwood sputtered out a harsh breath. Bellamy teased and licked the head some more, his fingers trailing through the hair at his groin, his knuckles inadvertently grazing the scars on his tender belly. He wanted to give them the same attention, but that would’ve been too intimate, so he lifted his head and changed course, helping Ashwood get rid of the rest of his clothes.

“Turn around,” Bellamy said, and when Ashwood turned to face the wall, Bellamy nearly lost his breath to see his full, meaty buttocks on display. But the scars on his back couldn’t be ignored. They were shiny, prominent reminders of what his old pack had done to him. He couldn’t help feathering his fingers over each one.

“Bell,” Ashwood murmured, using the nickname from their youth, and Bellamy didn’t flinch this time, knowing it was coming from a pure place. Ashwood was his mate, and he’d almost been killed, and no one deserved to be left for dead like that, except maybe Kipling. That man deserved a slow agony, something completely different from the one Bellamy was attempting to provide Ashwood with that night.

Ashwood may have made grave mistakes when it came to Bellamy, but Bellamy no longer wanted him to suffer mercilessly. He couldn’t imagine him lying in the forest, any more than he could imagine his mother suffering. The very idea killed him.