Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 140: Wet.

"I’m wet."

For half a second, the room stopped existing.

Arion didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He simply stared at Dean as if his brain had to re-run the sentence through every layer of restraint before it could accept it as real.

Dean, meanwhile, appeared pleased with himself, cheeks flushed, mouth soft, posture openly offering, as if he’d just announced the weather.

Arion inhaled and before Dean could draw his next breath, Arion moved.

One moment Dean was standing by the door; the next he was slammed back against it, the wood groaning under the impact. Arion’s body was a furnace against his, all hard muscle and coiled fury. One hand shot out, bracing beside Dean’s head, caging him in. The other tangled in Dean’s hair, gripping tight enough to sting, forcing his head back to expose the long line of his throat.

"You," Arion snarled, his voice ragged and wrecked. The word was torn from him, devoid of all civility. He leaned in, his face buried in the curve of Dean’s neck, inhaling deep and hard. He wasn’t just smelling him but more consuming his scent, dragging it into his lungs like a drug.

"You have no idea," Arion murmured against Dean’s skin, voice low and shaking with restraint, "what you’re doing to me."

Dean tilted his head, giving Arion more access to his throat, his scent gland throbbing painfully at his nape.

"Oh, I think I do," Dean whispered, his voice a husky taunt. He slowly raised his hands from his sides and pressed them flat against Arion’s chest, feeling the frantic, trapped beat of his heart through the fine fabric of his suit. "I think I’m doing exactly what I set out to do."

A low growl rumbled in Arion’s chest. He tightened his grip on Dean’s hair, a clear warning, but Dean only smiled wider.

"Let me help," Dean murmured, and before Arion could process the words, Dean’s hands were moving. Dean slid his palms down Arion’s chest, over his taut stomach, until his fingers found the cool, smooth leather of his belt.

Arion’s entire body went rigid. Every muscle locked down in a desperate, last-ditch effort at control. His hand shot out, clamping over Dean’s wrist, stilling him. "Don’t," he bit out, the word a ragged command.

Dean’s fingers paused, resting on the buckle. He looked up, meeting Arion’s wild, golden gaze with his own, which was dark with lust and triumph. "Why not?" he asked, his voice soft and sweet. "You’re fixing it, aren’t you? Let me help you fix it."

Arion’s jaw was a hard, tight line. He was fighting a war with himself, and Dean could see the battle raging in his eyes, but something changed.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Arion’s face. Dean felt his stomach clench with anticipation as he saw a predator’s smile. Arion released Dean’s wrist, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, intimate purr.

"Oh, I’m going to fix it," Arion murmured, his lips brushing against Dean’s ear. "But it will be on my terms."

He took a step back to make room between them, then crossed the room and sat in one of the chairs, one leg over the knee.

"You wanted to provoke me," Arion stated, his voice calm. "You wanted to see what happens when I stop holding back. So now... you’re going to give me a show."

Dean’s brows lifted, a flicker of surprise quickly replaced by intrigue. He leaned back against the door, a slow, challenging smile forming. "A show?"

"Take it off," Arion commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. His eyes were fixed on Dean, hot and unwavering. "All of it. Slowly. I want to savor this."

Dean’s smile widened. He pushed aside the door and stood in the center of the room. He brought his hands to the knot in his tie, his fingers moving with practiced, unhurried grace. He maintained eye contact as he loosened the silk, then pulled it from his collar and dropped it to the floor.

Dean’s fingers went to the buttons of his crisp white shirt, his gaze meeting Arion’s. The first button popped free, revealing a sliver of pale, smooth chest. The second followed, then the third, each movement meddling slow, each tiny release of fabric a provocation.

Arion didn’t move from his chair, but the air in the room thickened, charged with the raw, earthy scent of vetiver, now edged with a predatory sharpness. His eyes were dark pools of molten gold, tracking every flick of Dean’s wrists.

"You’re enjoying this," Dean observed, his voice a low purr as he pushed the shirt off his shoulders. It slid down his arms, catching for a moment on his wrists before he shook it loose. It joined the tie on the floor. His torso was lean and elegantly defined, the lines of his ribs and the flat plane of his stomach pale in the dim light. His scent, that maddening mix of mint and lemonade, bloomed stronger, sweeter, and tangier with anticipation.

"I’m enjoying watching you perform," Arion corrected, his voice a low rumble. "There’s a difference. You’re the one who needs this."

Dean’s smile was sharp. He reached for his belt buckle, the metal cool under his fingers. He unfastened it with a slow, drawn-out click-hiss, pulling the leather free from the loops with a sensual drag. He looped it once around his fist, then let it fall. Thud.

"I need it?" Dean challenged, his hands going to the button of his trousers. "Is that what you’re telling yourself? That this is for me?" He popped the button. The zipper’s descent was the loudest sound in the room, a slow, grating zzzzip that seemed to vibrate in Arion’s bones.

"You’re in pre-heat," Arion said, his knuckles white where they gripped the arm of the chair. "You’re desperate. Reckless. You picked a fight you can’t finish."

"We’ll see about that," Dean breathed. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and briefs together and pushed them down in one smooth, fluid motion. The fabric pooled at his ankles, and he stepped out of them, kicking them aside.

He stood naked before Arion, utterly exposed. The flush on his cheeks had spread down his chest. His cock, already half-hard, lay against his thigh. And between his legs, the evidence of his earlier taunt was obvious: a slick, glistening wetness that darkened the pale hair of his groin, dripping down his thighs.

Arion’s breath caught, a sharp, audible inhale. His control was visibly trembling. He was taking in Dean’s every inch, from the graceful arch of his feet to the defiant tilt of his chin.

"Satisfied?" Dean asked, spreading his arms slightly. A bead of slick traced a path down his inner thigh.

"No," Arion said and extended his hand to Dean in invitation.