Miles knows, of course, can smell Kurt's arousal, heavy and sweet and intoxicating, designed to call to any wolf and compel them to take, to claim, to possess. It's the scent of an eager, well-trained mate without a pack, something both horrifying and beguiling. Miles has shattered the bond Kurt has with Corrigan, with the pack, an act that takes sheer force of will to complete. His hatred for the pack he once had is stronger than anything else, his desire to destroy drowning out even his own pleasure.
Still, Kurt does have a pretty mouth, a mouth that knows exactly how to please a wolf, even when roughly used and not given much chance to do anything but kneel there and take it. Miles knows the little human's mind -- whatever they may be thinking about being used by their Alpha's greatest enemy -- is helpless in the face of their body's hormones, it's instincts. Kurt has been so conditioned to crave touch, no matter how rough, perfectly trained to service an entire pack all day, every day. In all his months of watching, Miles had rarely seen them without at least one of the wolves touching them, holding them, kissing them and -- most often -- fucking them. Being pregnant has only intensified this, as Kurt's body has become even more insatiable, more easily aroused, more sensitive and needy. It's a biological need, some believe, a way to ensure that the pack stays close to their vulnerable mate and protects them.
Even Miles's hardened instincts are touched by the pheromones Kurt is drowning the clearing with, compelling him to use them, stay close to them, keep them safe and protected. Granted, he doesn't care as much about their physical safety -- it's much more about keeping them away from Corrigan, under his control. He continues fucking their throat deep and steady, heedless of their choking, gasping sobs, scarcely allowing them to breathe.
And when they reach out, desperately, instinctively, Miles reaches back, drowns them in his own presence, his own power, entrapping them with scent and flesh and mind, beginning to overwrite the warmth of the pack with his own eerie, cold presence. "You know," he rasps, pumping into Kurt's throat and holding his cock there, in the convulsing, tight heat, massaged by their involuntary clutching muscles. "I don't think I like you calling me "sir" anymore..." He slides one hand to rest over the terrified, weeping little human's throat, squeezing slowly, wanting to feel them gag, hear them choke on his cock. "I think "Alpha" suits me much, much better. Don't you?"
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Still, Kurt does have a pretty mouth, a mouth that knows exactly how to please a wolf, even when roughly used and not given much chance to do anything but kneel there and take it. Miles knows the little human's mind -- whatever they may be thinking about being used by their Alpha's greatest enemy -- is helpless in the face of their body's hormones, it's instincts. Kurt has been so conditioned to crave touch, no matter how rough, perfectly trained to service an entire pack all day, every day. In all his months of watching, Miles had rarely seen them without at least one of the wolves touching them, holding them, kissing them and -- most often -- fucking them. Being pregnant has only intensified this, as Kurt's body has become even more insatiable, more easily aroused, more sensitive and needy. It's a biological need, some believe, a way to ensure that the pack stays close to their vulnerable mate and protects them.
Even Miles's hardened instincts are touched by the pheromones Kurt is drowning the clearing with, compelling him to use them, stay close to them, keep them safe and protected. Granted, he doesn't care as much about their physical safety -- it's much more about keeping them away from Corrigan, under his control. He continues fucking their throat deep and steady, heedless of their choking, gasping sobs, scarcely allowing them to breathe.
And when they reach out, desperately, instinctively, Miles reaches back, drowns them in his own presence, his own power, entrapping them with scent and flesh and mind, beginning to overwrite the warmth of the pack with his own eerie, cold presence. "You know," he rasps, pumping into Kurt's throat and holding his cock there, in the convulsing, tight heat, massaged by their involuntary clutching muscles. "I don't think I like you calling me "sir" anymore..." He slides one hand to rest over the terrified, weeping little human's throat, squeezing slowly, wanting to feel them gag, hear them choke on his cock. "I think "Alpha" suits me much, much better. Don't you?"