Corrigan is already learning the best ways to coax Kurt through a climax, how to push them that little bit farther, until the fraying edge of pleasurepain blurs entirely, until their thighs are shaking and their toes are curling from how much it all is. Part of him would be content to make a lifelong study of that exact science, toying with his little mate until he's an expert with every inch of them.

But another part is still cautious, remembering the fear of minutes before. It's all been blotted out in the blinding flash of pure pleasure, yet the aftertaste lingers in his mind. So he doesn't push too far, absently licking Kurt's come from his hand, then kissing the side of their neck. "Greedy little bird," he accuses lightly, working his fingers free, then rising to go open the front door. He's half-hard, but the pack is an insistent, pawing mass rapidly approaching the cabin, and what kind of alpha would he be if he didn't help bring in the kill?

So he leaves them panting in the furs, worked up and not nearly sated, pleasured and frustrated all at once. Like he'd done it on purpose.

...he totally did it on purpose. It's evident in the way Corrigan smirks as he opens the door and let's the four eager, bloody, panting wolves inside, all of them making a beeline for Kurt. One of them -- big, silvery, Leo -- sniffs the air, then fixes the alpha with an accusing glare. No fair, he got to play while they all worked hard!