Caine is a lot, sometimes.
Jupiter is well aware that she is, too, but her a lot is more personality and inexperience in the great wide universe and, oh, that whole being royal thing. Caine’s is just -- all of him, and there’s so much of him, and most of it is needy.
He’s not really an animal, for all he claims otherwise, but there are some traits that she could consider animalistic, and did once, for a short while. He likes to sit at her feet and lean against her legs and put his head on her knee, and she’s seen dogs sit just like that with their people. He likes to sniff her a lot, at her throat and at her hip if she’ll let him and places she sits and clothes she wears. Sometimes, if she’s the kind of tense that is the next thing to fear, he growls at whatever’s caused it.
But when she cards her fingers through his hair, and he absolutely melts against her, she thinks -- oh. And even more when she tugs at it, just a little, not enough to hurt, and he makes a noise in his throat that is not animal at all.
He likes to lean into her, and he likes it when she pets him, and he likes how she smells, and none of that is because he has more in common with a dog than with her, it’s because he’s never had any of that, nothing gentle, and he needs to know where she is, needs to know that she’s safe and she’s content.
It’s not that she’s ever really felt strange about how badly she wants him, but there is a sliver of relief to learn that the things he does that she enjoys so much are not things he does because he’s more of a pet than a person.
So she touches him, strokes his hair and his shoulders, curls her fingers along his jaw, puts her arms around him when he leans in to sniff her. He lets her give him those things, and she loves him a little more each time.
Caine doesn’t ask for what he wants. She doesn’t think he even knows how, and if he did, he certainly wouldn’t ask them of her, his royalty. She wishes he would, but she’s learned to read him, to see the wants he never voices, and she can work with that.
Caine lies on her bed, arms stretched to the headboard, feet to the edge. He’s naked, and glorious, well-formed body, gold skin, and a cock hard and wet with wanting.
He watches her, eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly open, lips red from her kisses. She drags her fingers down his chest, down his stomach, and then does it again to watch the way his muscles tighten. A line of hair runs from low on his stomach down to his cock, and she lingers there.
“Good boy,” she tells him when he doesn’t press his hips up to try to move her hand lower, and he whines a little in the back of his throat. Not an animal noise at all, and it makes her skin feel too tight and too hot. “Look at you, so pretty for me, so good.”
A slow shiver works through him at that, but he still doesn’t move. Possibly he could stop even that reaction, he has quite the control over every inch of himself, but she’s been petting him for nearly an hour now, and he’s pretty far gone.
Jupiter puts her left hand at his throat, but doesn’t push down. Not yet. He swallows against her palm, and she digs her nails in, just a little. His cock moves at that, and she lets her right hand wander lower until her fingers just touch the base where his knot sits, nowhere near blown.
“You’re so good,” she tells him, and he shivers again all over. She wishes she was better at the talking part. She’s awkward, still, and doesn’t always know what to say. I love dogs. I have always loved dogs lingers, and sometimes she’s not all that good at it even now. But he likes whatever she says, and he really likes it when she tells him nice things about himself, and his favorite is to hear that he’s good.
He deserves a lifetime and more of knowing that. He doesn’t believe her, not always, maybe not even most of the time, and so she’ll say it over and over and over.
She presses down at his throat. He swallows again then holds himself very still. She can feel each breath, ragged now, a little more desperate.
Her right hand curls around his cock just as she cuts off his air completely, and his entire body goes limp, except where he throbs against her palm. She can’t wrap her fingers all the way around him, but close. He’s big, there and everywhere, broad shoulders and hips, thick legs, long fingers and toes. She feels tiny next to him, delicate, but she’s anything but, and he knows it, too.
He’s leaking so much that it drips down his cock. She rubs it in, lets it slick over her hand so that her strokes run even smoother. He strains a little, at his hips and at his shoulders, trying not to thrust up into one touch and pull away from the other.
Caine lets her do this, lets her control his body, and she’s never felt more powerful, or beloved, or safe.
His eyes drift closed, and she loosens her grip on his throat. Lets him suck in three great gasps before she cuts him off again. Her hand moves faster on his cock, and those slack muscles tighten, stomach taut, legs tense. He moans, but it’s strangled where she holds tight to his throat.
Again, she lets him breathe then takes it away. Again. Again.
His knot is half-blown, and her hand is absolutely soaked, and his cock is red when she finally stops teasing. She presses down at his throat one more time. Wraps her hand around the base of his cock, just below his knot, and squeezes.
Caine arches up, pressing into both her hands, body jerking. She holds him tight, doesn’t let him breathe, doesn’t let him come, and he’s hers, and he’s good, and she loves him, loves touching him, loves the way he moves just as she wants him, loves the way he’s hers. She tells him all that, and more, words stumbling all over themselves.
Then she lets go of his throat, twists her palm around his knot the way she knows he likes, and he’s gone.
He comes messily, all over her hand and his stomach and even partway up his chest, and his knot blows even though there’s nothing for him to lock. He gasps for air, mouth wide and wet, his eyes shining, and she can’t help but kiss him, uncoordinated, sloppy. He moans into it, and she doesn’t care.
When he’s done, he curls into her, presses his face against her thigh. He’s a mess, and so are the sheets. She makes it worse when she wipes her hand clean, but they’ll wash.
For now, she strokes his hair with one hand and the long line of his thigh with the other. She thinks, even as much as he loves everything else they do, that he likes this best, the touching, the smell of them together, the way she cradles him to her.
In just a bit, she’ll push him onto his back again, straddles his face, but for now all she wants to do is pet him and tell him he’s good.
And from the noises he makes, low and happy and so perfectly human, that’s all he wants too.