Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 140: Just as Much **

"Aaaaahhhhnnn... nggghhh..."

The sound was ripped from her. He filled her completely, a perfect fit. The squeeze, the fluttering ripples and spasms that greeted him... different.

"Fuck, Cecilia..." Eastiel growled. "Was this... was this what Brother Oathran felt... that night...?"

He’d severed their Sense Sharing then. He’d never known the precise sensations the dragon and the wolf had wrung from her.

Cecilia shook her head against the silken cushion, her hair a wild, golden halo. "He’s... not angled... this much..." she managed to pant.

"Oh...?" Eastiel gasped, the sound part pain, part amusement. His angle. His discovery.

Then he moved.

THRUST! THRUST—THRUST—SLAP! SLAM!

What followed was a series of deep, piston-driven drives that stole the breath from her lungs and hammered the divan against the stone floor. The slaps of skin on skin were obscenely loud in the stately room.

"Aaahh! Sssh! Ah ah ah ah—" Her cries were fractured, each impact punctuating a syllable.

"Not angled this much?" he taunted, reveling in the advantage.

"Mmmm! East—!"

"What?" he drove into her again, a punishing, perfect stroke. "If it was my cock between his cocks, it wouldn’t be as smooth as Brother Arkai’s intruding thrusts, huh? Tell me. Which angle did Brother Oathra—"

"You like mentioning them so muc—?" she gasped out, a half-hearted protest.

He leaned over her, his face inches from hers. His grin was feral as he said, "I love to see them ruin you, of course I’d mention them, baby..."

Cecilia glared up at him, the effect somewhat ruined by her trembling lip and glazed eyes. It only made his grin widen. 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

"But I just want you tonight..." she whimpered.

SLAP—SLAP—SLAP—

He answered with a renewed rhythm, his hips a machine of perfect friction. "I know," he breathed, slamming into her with a reckless abandon that spoke of nights spent thinking of nothing else.

He dipped his head, capturing her lips in a searing, messy kiss. "I wonder why..." he murmured against her mouth, the words spilling out with each thrust, "...I still want you for myself... yet need them to ruin you too—"

Even if he wanted her wholly. Even if, in the deepest, most selfish chambers of his heart, he knew she was supposed to be only his. Even if the only ’if’ that truly mattered was if she had married him first, all those years ago, sidestepping Arzhen and the brush with death entirely...

That reality would have meant that Oathran would die alone in some random ditch, and Arkai alone in that volcano’s wrath.

And as much as the lion in him hated sharing his mate... he also now hated the thought of a world without his brothers in it. Without their shared understanding. Without the sight of them loving her, too.

He let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh.

"I guess I’m as much of a slut as you are, baby..."

SLAM—! SLAP—SLAP—

"Cumming! Cu—! East—! Aaahhh! East!!"

Her cries lost all shape, becoming just his name as the coil inside her snapped. The world dissolved into white-hot static, every muscle in her body locking and then convulsing around him in a violent, milking rhythm that stole his reason.

"Aaaahhh—mmmmhh! Me too, baby..." he gasped, the words torn from him as he felt her climax ignite his own, a chain reaction of detonating pleasure. He tried to hold on, to make it last, to savor the feel of her shattering around him, but it was a lost battle. "Wait for me—grrrrrhhhh!"

His own control vaporized. With a final, deep, grinding thrust that buried him to the root, he came.

SPLURT! SPLURT! SPLURT—!

The release filled the clutch of her spasming depths, flooded her, each jet a punctuation mark to their ruin. He collapsed over her, his great body shuddering, his face buried in the curve of her neck.

Breathless, Eastiel whispered to her ear, "I still want my human cock."

Cecilia slapped his chest. "You!"

***

Knock. Knock-knock.

The knocking sound was almost swallowed by the howl of the wind against the stone of the Winter’s Keep fortress. A werewolf spy, his fur dusted with frost, stood rigidly outside the heavy oak door of the Alpha’s private chamber.

"Alpha," he called, his voice low but carrying through the thick wood. "There’s a change in the situation. May I report?"

For a long moment, there was only the sigh of the wind. Then, a voice answered from within. It was dark, deep, and terrifyingly calm. "Come in."

The spy pushed the door open and stepped into absolute darkness.

The Alpha’s chamber was a spartan, masculine space, built for utility and endurance, not comfort. Tonight, it was a tomb. Not a single candle burned. The heavy, winter-proof curtains were drawn tight, blotting out even the silver kiss of the moon on the snow. There was no warmth here at all.

But it wasn’t the cold that struck the spy first.

It was the smell.

The room was thick with the potent scent of rut. It hung in the air like a humid fog, rich, musky, and overwhelmingly alpha.

The spy’s eyes widened in the dark, his instincts screaming. His mind leapt to the only logical conclusion. The Luna. She must be here. Hidden. He had interrupted something intimate. A cold sweat broke out on his brow beneath his fur.

He strained his senses, his ears swiveling, his nose flaring, searching for the softer, sweeter signature of the pack’s lady. He found nothing. No second heartbeat, no rustle of sheets, no feminine scent beneath the dominant, aggressively male one. There was only one presence in the room.

His eyes, adjusting to the gloom, found the silhouette of his Alpha. Arkai Dawnoro sat on the center of his massive bed, his back straight, a heavy fur blanket pooled around his waist. One arm was braced on his thigh, the other hand rested in his lap, hidden by the folds of the blanket.

The darkness swallowed his features, but the spy caught it. A faint, dangerous glint from where the Alpha’s eyes would be. Not the usual black. But a simmering, barely-contained red. The glint of rut.

"Tell me the report." Arkai’s voice was the same flat, commanding gravel, but there was an undercurrent in it, a tension like a drawn bowstring.

The spy snapped his gaze to the floor, chastised. "Yes, Alpha. Lady Elara. Her behavior has shifted. She has not begged to see Lord Anton tonight. She has also ceased her performances of grief, the sobbing fits she staged every two hours to manipulate sympathy..."

"The change occurred immediately after she received a communication from Lord Arzhen via the crystal. She has been... calm. Unnaturally so."

He risked a glance up. The shadow that was Arkai hadn’t moved. "The change, my lord. It is very abrupt. Something is brewing. They may have a new plan."

Arkai took a slow, deep breath, a sound that seemed to pull the heavy scent deeper into the room. The spy saw the powerful rise and fall of his chest. After a moment of considering silence, the Alpha gave a single, curt nod.

"You may leave."

The spy bowed, relief and lingering unease warring within him, and backed out of the room, pulling the door shut with a soft but final thud.

The moment the latch clicked, the rigid posture on the bed broke. Arkai leaned back, his head thumping against the carved wooden headboard. A low, strained sound escaped him, half groan, half sigh.

He shifted the hand that had been resting so still in his lap. As he moved it, the heavy fur blanket tented dramatically, revealing the hard bulge he’d been concealing. His hips gave an involuntary, jerky thrust upwards into the empty air.

He was feeling a pleasure that was not his own.

The Sense Sharing again... The connection had been a live wire all night, offering a participation in a joining far to the south. He’d felt the fierce claim. Every angle, every gasp, every clenching spasm.

It had all played out across his own nerve endings.

Again.

Fuck.

But fuck yes.

With a growl of frustration and surrender, he threw the stifling blanket aside. Freed from its confines, his cock stood tall, straight and weeping against the empty air. This witness-feel... He moaned, strangled up and down.

That was when that distant climax finally ripped through the connection. Cecilia’s cries, Eastiel’s roar, the catastrophic, liquid release—it had triggered his own.

"Gr—rrr—raaahhhhh—ssssshhh ahhhh..."

SPLURT!

His body betrayed him anew. Without a single touch from his own hand, spurred purely by the sensation, his own cock gave a final, helpless pulse.

SPLURT—SPLURT!

A hot stripe painted his own abdomen. He groaned loudly and clasped a hand over his eyes as if he could block out the sensations imprinted on his soul.

"Fuck... East—fuck, why am I calling his name, fucking—Cecilia—"

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