Chapter Five

Storm

R yder’s ass was sticking up in the air on a queen-size bed with a light oak frame and a tall headboard upholstered in royal blue velvet. Storm stared at Kodiak with trepidation, unsure how any of this would test whether or not their plush pillow-top mattresses would be truly comfortable for someone to “bury their face in as they tried to muffle their cries of ecstasy.”

Kodiak made a ‘get on with it’ gesture, and Storm gulped audibly as he spread Ryder’s ass cheeks and leaned forward, hesitantly poking his tongue out to lap at Ryder’s hole.

The effort it took not to do more than that was herculean because, fuck, Ryder was delicious. Storm wanted to eat him out for days, feast on him until they were both wet and sloppy and he’d be able to slip right in.

But this damn scene didn’t require that. Instead, he had to inexpertly poke about for a minute before he got Brandt’s go-ahead and his skills suddenly and dramatically improved.

He delved deeper, rimming Ryder with purpose, flicking and stroking and teasing, fucking into Ryder, feeling him shake as he tried not to writhe on Storm’s tongue, as he moaned and arched his back, as his body begged so sweetly for more.

Storm had just settled in for a proper feast when his new least favorite word rang through the studio.

“Cut! That was great. Bring in the next bed!”

Brandt had the worst timing.

Storm and Ryder groaned in unison. This sex montage could burn in the deepest, fieriest pits of hell as far as Storm was concerned, and they’d barely begun to film it.

They climbed off the bed, and Storm noted with pride that Ryder’s legs weren’t entirely steady as they stepped away. The crew hurried to switch out the beds.

“Storm,” Brandt said, “get yourself ready.”

After getting a taste of Ryder, Storm was more than ready, but it was always best to follow the director’s orders. He spat in his hand and wrapped it around his shaft. Ryder’s eyes tracked the movement; he didn’t pretend to avert his gaze, and that was perfectly fine with Storm. Arousal buzzed through him just like Ryder’s magic had buzzed against his skin. He dragged his fist over his length, keeping his pace unhurried and leisurely, rolling his foreskin up and down with each motion.

Ryder’s fingers flexed, and Storm could practically feel his need to touch himself, to copy Storm’s strokes, to jerk off together. But the next shot didn’t call for Ryder to be fully hard, so he had to stand there and watch.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

But then Ryder shook himself and looked up at Storm with narrowed eyes.

“What did you mean by ‘unlike some other fans’?”

The question was so random that it had Storm’s hand faltering. “What?”

“After the interview, you said MateHub fans never riot. Was that a swipe at soccer fans?”

“Uh… yeah? Obviously.”

“What do you have against soccer fans?”

“Well, the riots, for one thing. You don’t see football fans doing that shit.” …Often.

“Right. Which is why they grease up the light poles in Philadelphia. The lack of potential riots.”

“Are you saying you don’t like a good greased pole?” He gave himself a nice, long stroke to emphasize the question.

Ryder’s gaze flicked down, but he shook himself again.

Before he could respond, Brandt directed them to take their places on the new bed—a twin on a matte black metal frame.

Ryder slid onto it, leaning back on his hands, his legs wide enough apart for Storm to kneel between them. He picked up the lube and squeezed some onto his fingers. “Don’t tell me you think American football is better than soccer.”

Storm watched Ryder’s fingers working in and out of his hole—a little extra stretching, making sure he was nice and lubed up. He grabbed the bottle to slick himself up as well. “Of course it’s better.”

“Not in a million years.” Ryder scoffed. “Football games are so long.”

“Hate to break it to you, but if you’re not a fan of long things, you aren’t going to enjoy the rest of this scene.”

Ryder snorted.

“Okay, okay,” Brandt said. “If you’re ready, let’s go.”

They cleaned their hands on the wipes the crew passed them, and the scene began.

Ryder stayed propped up, Storm still between his legs, as they stared at Kodiak.

“This is our twin model,” he said, “but we want to ensure there’s room for two people and any activities they may wish to do.”

They nodded, both swallowing hard before turning to face each other. Though they were supposed to appear nervous, anticipation hung between them. Storm took himself in hand and lined up, nudging against Ryder’s entrance before slowly pushing into his tight heat.

Goddamn, that was good.

Ryder hissed like he was in pain, but his eyes were full of banked desire, urging Storm on.

Storm sank into him, inch by inch, at a glacial pace that was testing his sanity, though it would look amazing for the close-up Rhys was filming. Ryder’s body welcomed him in, clenching around him as Storm sheathed himself completely.

He paused for a beat, and they both drew in a breath, then he withdrew before doing it again. He managed a few more maddeningly slow thrusts, his world narrowing to the wild thundering of his heart, the enticing flutter of magic under his palms where he gripped Ryder’s hips, the raw hunger in Ryder’s shaky gasps.

“No,” Kodiak said, reminding Storm that other people were there. “These beds must be thoroughly tested. If you can’t fuck him harder than that, we’ll have to get someone else in to do it.”

Storm growled, his hips snapping forward. Ryder moaned, and Storm glared at Kodiak. See? There was no need for that. He was more than capable of fucking Ryder as hard as necessary.

He pounded into Ryder, their skin slapping together in a primal rhythm. Ryder’s hands grasped the sheets, his body trembling, his muscles taut.

This wasn’t just good; it was perfect . Storm could fuck him like this until they were both dripping with sweat, until the intense energy building between them was impossible to contain, until?—

“Cut!” Brandt yelled.

Storm froze, blinking at Ryder, his fingers digging into skin, and he realized how close his claws were to sprouting. Ryder’s expression held a hint of disorientated surprise that mirrored his own.

Oops. He’d gotten carried away there.

“Sorry about that.” He carefully withdrew, though his dick throbbed in protest. His wolf was equally unhappy. They had Ryder under them, spread open for them. His scent was so fucking heady. Why would they do something foolish like stop?

But he got up and helped Ryder to his unsteady feet.

Ryder waved off his apology. “What you should be sorry for is liking such a boring sport.”

“I didn’t hear any complaints about length a minute ago.”

“Come on. Over three hours of stops and starts and hardly any action in between? That’s your idea of fun? Wouldn’t you rather go for a solid ninety minutes with very few interruptions?”

Storm eyed the crew as they switched out the twin for a daybed—to test the comfort of sitting positions and give the fans a few shots of Ryder indeed being on the Storm.

Ryder had a point. Continuous action wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

That didn’t mean Storm had to admit it.

“At least in football, everyone can take a pounding. Ninety minutes of limply flopping about at the slightest touch isn’t doing anyone any good.”

“I might be willing to accept that argument from a rugby fan, but football? Please. All that protection? Pass. If I’m getting slammed into, I want to feel it.”

Storm leered at him. “I can guarantee you will.”

Except that was easier said than done when they had a dozen beds to film in, each with its own form of awkward fumbling before they were allowed to show their true skills. Kodiak continued to take notes and give them helpful instructions like “harder” and “switch positions.” The moment they started to enjoy themselves on any given bed, Brandt would order another brought in to test whatever ridiculous factor had been deemed important by the MateHub writers. Every time he called cut, Storm had to suppress an irritated snarl. Normally, he could tolerate the stopping and starting that came with filming porn, but today, it was nothing but a frustrating tease.

One bed squeaked like a dog toy with every thrust of his hips, and the accompanying spike in the scent of magic told him he had Tristan to thank for the sound effects. The next bed had a mattress as soft as concrete, and the one after that had to have been made from quicksand with how it sucked them in. They flailed around, attempting to build any sort of rhythm, only to be engulfed farther into the mattress’s pillowy embrace. They didn’t need to pretend to be inexperienced amateurs; the mattress was doing it for them. Yet another collapsed under their combined weight as soon as Storm put force behind his thrusts. Kodiak shook his head disapprovingly and scribbled more notes.

Storm and Ryder helped each other up from the wreckage, unable to keep from laughing.

“This isn’t the craziest scene I’ve filmed,” Ryder said, “but I’ve never broken a bed before.”

“You should try it off camera sometime.”

“Is that an offer?”

Storm gave Ryder’s lithe body a once-over, his gaze catching on the hand jerking his cock, keeping himself hard. When Ryder noticed his attention, he slowed his strokes, gliding his foreskin forward before easing it back, twisting his fingers over the exposed head, and thrusting into his fist.

He never would have imagined thinking about a mage this way, but yeah, it absolutely was an offer.

“I’m not sure,” he said instead. “I do like to know my men can handle a pounding.”

“And I like mine to have the stamina for a full ninety minutes.”

Brandt clapped his hands together, interrupting their conversation. “Alright! This is the second to last bed, so Storm is about to knot you, Ryder.”

Storm forced himself to look away from Ryder and at the bed the crew had set up. It was another queen, but this time, it was a waterbed with a retro flair. Its low frame was crafted from glossy wood with a rich espresso finish. As they climbed onto it, the mattress sloshed, undulating with each shift of their weight.

This was a first. He’d never fucked someone on a waterbed before, even if it would be just for a few minutes.

The cameras rolled, and Kodiak droned on about the durability of reinforced vinyl covers and the unique floating sensation provided by the water. Storm was too busy pulling Ryder against him to care. The cool mattress offered a counterpoint to Ryder’s hot body. Sinking into him was a blissful relief.

Ryder arched up against him, his tone breathy as he cried out, “Oh god, yes ! I can feel your knot throbbing. Give it to me! Give me your knot!”

Regardless of that being cheesy porn dialog, Storm’s wolf surged forward, growling at the idea of knotting Ryder. The base of his dick pulsed, his jaw ached with the instinct to drop fangs, and his claws sprouted. Ryder clung to him, eagerly meeting his movements, and Storm dug his fingers into the?—

A gurgle of water spurted up from under his claws. Storm jerked back, snatching Ryder into his arms and scrambling off the rapidly leaking bed. He stood, Ryder still on his cock, and groaned as gravity kindly drove him deeper into Ryder’s ass.

Brandt and the crew scurried around for towels or buckets or anything that would stop the water.

With a heavy sigh, Tristan strolled over, leveling Storm with an unimpressed glare. He placed his hand against the bed, and his eyes glowed yellow. A barrier flashed into place around the mattress, trapping most of the water inside. “You thought claws and a waterbed were a good combination?”

Storm hadn’t been thinking at all, if he were being honest, but that didn’t seem like the best thing to say to Tristan.

“You gonna set me down?” Ryder asked, his voice a low rasp that sent a shiver along Storm’s spine.

Did he have to? The prospect of keeping Ryder in his arms, warming his dick as they waited for the crew to clean up, was too appealing. But he inhaled deeply, drawing in Ryder’s intoxicating scent, then reluctantly lifted him up and off his cock and set him on the ground, no matter how much the untamed side of himself grumbled about the decision.

The crew took their sweet time switching out the beds, and okay, fine, part of that was Storm’s fault. He shouldn’t expect an instant changeover when mopping was involved. He’d have felt bad about that, but every ounce of his willpower was being spent on not bending Ryder over any of the discarded beds, cameras be damned. His wolf was sick of waiting, sick of the starts and stops, and it knew Ryder was too, knew he was done with small talk and banter, knew he was ready for them to do this properly.

With another co-star, Storm’s erection might have flagged during this delay, but all he could think about was what came next. The montage over, the buildup done. Time for the final bed—an imposing king-sized monstrosity with a thick mattress, satin sheets, and a frame carved from dark walnut.

By some miracle, he restrained himself until Brandt called action. The script said they should wait for Kodiak’s instructions, but Storm had had enough of that. He grabbed Ryder and tossed him onto the bed, stalking after him. Ryder smirked and scooted up the mattress to settle against the pillows, tugging Storm down, wrapping his legs around him, and urging him inside.

Storm slid in, forgetting about the cameras, the crew, the money, the scene. Forgetting everything but Ryder’s body under him, clinging to him, moving with him. The sudden, overwhelming need to bite and claim rushed through his veins.

This . This was what he was meant to do, and now that there would be no more interruptions, he intended to do precisely that.