Milo was no longer just burning; he was a living, screaming ember, trapped in the furnace of his own bed. Every ounce of his being was focused on the excruciating, agonizing pleasure that Elias's sleeping body was inflicting. The soft, rhythmic sound of Elias's breathing was a maddening lullaby in his ear, each exhale a warm puff against his neck. The subtle tickle of those wolf-ears against his jaw was driving him absolutely insane.
Elias's leg was the tormentor, a warm, muscular weight firmly nestled between Milo's. But it was no longer just a pressure. With a soft, almost imperceptible shift in Elias's sleep, the leg began to move, a slow, continuous, rhythmic rub against Milo's throbbing erection. It was incredibly hard, a relentless friction that drove the blood from Milo's head and sent it rushing, insistent, to every nerve ending below his waist. Milo's breath hitched, a silent, desperate gasp. The world narrowed to the feel of that unconscious movement, the exquisite torture of it.
Oh, god. Oh, god, no. Stop. Please stop. Please don't stop, Milo's mind screamed, a frantic, contradictory chorus. He was on the verge of breaking.
And then, Elias's hand, the one previously resting innocently on Milo's stomach, shifted. Slowly, deliberately, as if seeking deeper warmth, it began to inch lower, slipping beneath the waistband of Milo's pajama bottoms. Fingers, surprisingly nimble and warm, brushed against bare skin, then curled, lingering there, just at the edge of Milo's straining boxers.
Milo's eyes snapped open, wide and staring into the darkness. A strangled, guttural sound tore from his throat, a low, involuntary whimper of raw pain and desperate pleasure that he couldn't hold back. It was a sound of sheer, unadulterated agony, born of the unbearable friction, the intoxicating intimacy, and the terrifying knowledge that he was utterly helpless.
The sound, small as it was, seemed to register in Elias's sleeping mind. Instead of flinching away, the opposite happened. Elias sighed deeply, a soft, comfortable murmur, and his leg, as if responding to Milo's pained gasp, pressed harder, continuing the maddening rub, even more intently now. And the hand that was lingering in Milo's pants? It burrowed deeper, fingers brushing against the fabric of his boxers, almost, almost making contact with his throbbing skin.
Milo's body arched, a tiny, involuntary movement against the constraint of Elias's unconscious embrace. A torrent of raw, desperate sounds tore from him – small, choked cries, broken moans of mounting pleasure and unbearable frustration. He was past flustered. He was dissolving, completely overwhelmed by the intensity. The raw, animalistic part of him was taking over, responding purely to the exquisite sensation.
Every breath was a struggle. Every pulse of his erection was a scream. He could feel Elias's breath deepen against his neck, a silent hum of unconscious contentment. Elias was responding to his sounds, to the raw, visceral feedback, not with conscious thought, but with instinct. His movements, driven by the primal need for comfort and warmth, were inadvertently leading Milo to the brink.
Milo clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that pricked at them. This was insane. He was about to come, right here, in his own damn bed, pressed against a sleeping, oblivious half-dragon in Westkilo, Calin City. His body was a hot, trembling mess, caught between the absolute agony of holding back and the terrifying, delicious promise of release. He was utterly lost in the inferno, consumed by the silent, powerful force of the dragon's unconscious touch.