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The first thrust is so hard, so fast, that Patrick screams, and Rigsby has to shoot a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. It’s too late—if the girls are back from their stakeout, set up in the room next door, they’ll have already heard. If not that, then the rickety wooden headboard slamming against the wall; it rattles while Rigsby pulls out and clatters when he shoves back inside. Patrick groans into Rigsby’s palm, the heat of his own breath making it hard to breathe. Rigsby being right on top of him makes it worse. Patrick tries to stay up on all fours like the good dog he said he’d be, but another vicious thrust sends him crashing into the pillow.
There’s a split second where he really can’t breathe—Rigsby bears down over him, thick and heavy, one muscular arm tight around his waist and the other at his chin. Then he manages to nose his way to the side, taking just enough air in through his nostrils to stay alive. His hips stay up, more from Rigsby bracing him than his own strength—his knees are already shaking. Rigby’s thrusts are merciless, but Patrick knew they would be. He’s never been with a full wolf before, only delicate, pretty puppies—in the past, just sweet cats—but maybe that was the allure. Maybe he wanted something different, in stark contrast to the lovely kitten he said his vows to, with soft blond ears and a friendly tail, not so different than his own. The fur on Rigsby’s ears and tail is all silver, the points in his teeth sharper than Patrick’s canines. Maybe that’s why Patrick baited Rigsby into it—to see what it’d be like, crushed under a feral beast twice his size.
For how gentle he is when petting through Van Pelt’s red hair, he’s a monster with Patrick. He slams into Patrick so hard that the bed shakes, threatening to collapse. Rigsby grinds in so deep that Patrick knows he’ll feel it in the morning. They’re not full animals, and Rigsby’s cock won’t bulge out like the kind of wolf that runs around on all fours, but it feels like Patrick’s already been knotted. He feels tethered to Rigsby’s body, overpowered by Rigsby’s size and strength. Patrick’s tail is trapped between them, taking a beating against Rigsby’s chiseled chest. His cock is stiff between his legs, leaking into his underwear. He didn’t even get a chance to take his clothes off, barely had time to prepare. His suits are all made-to-measure and fit just right around him, but his waistcoat’s suddenly stifling, his collar much too high. If he had the wherewithal, he’d undo his own buttons, but even Patrick has his limits.
Rigsby’s a simpler man with simpler wants, and he seems to want it just how he has it. He doesn’t try to rip off Patrick’s clothes and doesn’t give Patrick room for it. He presses Patrick down into the motel mattress and humps him like an animal—in and out—sometimes at the right angle and sometimes not—panting over Patrick’s shoulder and growling deep in his throat. Patrick’s whining like a bitch in heat, eager to be bred.
The heat’s overwhelming. Patrick’s skin is on fire. Sweat slithers down his spine, glues his shirt to his waist, dampens his trousers. He can feel Rigsby’s tie draping down to the small of his back, but Rigsby doesn’t seem to mind the heat—he makes it worse, pressing his nose against Patrick’s cheek and swiping a wet tongue along his jaw. Patrick groans into Rigsby’s hand and pitches his hips back. Sometimes Lisbon says Patrick’s too quick with his tongue, both with his words and the casual little licks dogs often use to greeting one another. Clearly, she’s never seen Rigsby in bed, because he’s worse than Patrick ever is—slobbering against the side of Patrick’s face and nipping at his already feverish flesh. Rigby’s sharp teeth trail along his jaw to close around his throat, going in for the kill, and Patrick screams again when he’s bitten hard. It’s probably enough to draw blood, but the slickness could be sweat—it’s hard to tell in the haze of sex. Rigsby growls low, like there’s nothing more satisfying than chewing up a colleague.
Distantly, Patrick’s aware that they’re not the only ones on the case, not the only ones checked into the room—Cho could come back at any moment and find Rigsby buried balls-deep in Patrick’s ass. It should be a deterrent, but Patrick’s far gone enough to moan at the idea. He shifts one hand from where it’s clenched in the sheets to reach between his sweaty thighs—he’s so hard it’s painful. Maybe Red John was right—he needs a feral tiger.
He shuts down the thought immediately. He’s done with cats, never going back—there’s a reason he wanted a wolf. He lets Rigsby chew on his neck and claw at his hips and work hard to breed him. The old clever positions are out the window—now he just gets mounted by other dogs. Bigger dogs. Ones that can fuck the thoughts out of his head. He shudders and fists his cock, wondering what it’d be like to feel Cho’s black fur between his fingers.
He pictures Cho coming back, dropping the pizza in surprise, then swiftly unbuckling his belt and climbing aboard—Patrick’s still got a hole to fill and wouldn’t mind putting his mouth to use. He bites down on the inside of his lip and imagines getting double-teamed for hours.
Even he couldn’t last long enough to satisfy both virile lovers. It feels like Rigsby could go all night. He hits the right spot again, and Patrick sobs into his hand, bursting. Patrick spills all over his fingers, filling up his briefs. He bucks into it while Rigsby rails his ass. It’s a dizzying, delicious moment, where he only exists for pleasure.
It’s painful when it pitters out. Once he’s done, he’s gasping for breath, severely overheated, sticky and gross with the stench of sex in his nose and the loud slapping sounds storming his ears. Rigsby’s still going. Patrick would think he didn’t even notice the orgasm, except he breathes over Patrick’s ear, “Bad puppy.”
Patrick moans and collapses in Rigsby’s arms, hoping he’s fucked unconscious.