"What are you thinking?" Chris leaned back, trying to put distance between them.
Chris froze as Dax didn’t just step closer, no, that would have been normal, civilized, lawful, even.
Dax lifted one long, powerful leg and planted his knee on the chair between Chris’s thighs like he was claiming territory on a battlefield.
A battlefield that Chris absolutely occupied.
"What are you... Dax. Dax." His voice pitched embarrassingly high. "Why is your knee... Why are you... What strategic purpose does this serve?!"
Dax’s answer was a slow, molten smile that said, ’You know exactly what purpose it serves.’
His scent curled around Chris’s spine like a warm hand.
"I’m thinking," Dax murmured, lowering his torso until Chris had no choice but to tilt backward, "that five hours is too long."
"TOO LONG?" Chris squeaked, bracing himself against the chair arms like Dax was gravity itself.
Dax nodded with the serenity of a man explaining weather patterns.
"Yes," he said, voice dark velvet. "Far too long."
Chris tried to push at Dax’s shoulder, but his hands just... slid. Because Dax was warm and solid and extremely unhelpful.
"Dax, I swear to every ancestor you have, this is not... this is NOT normal."
"It is for me," Dax said, completely unrepentant, leaning in until his breath warmed the hinge of Chris’s jaw. "And you make it worse."
Chris’s brain simply gave up on trying.
All his arguments, his logic, his righteous indignation... gone. Thrown straight out the nearest window. One moment he was sputtering about debts and sanity and physics, and the next...
He was grabbing Dax’s collar with both hands, hard enough to make the king’s breath catch, and yanked Dax down.
Their mouths collided, hungry and urgent, and there was nothing polite or careful about it. Chris kissed him like he needed air and Dax was oxygen. Like every instinct he’d spent years burying had surged to the surface at once.
The sound Dax made was low and dark, a growl wrapped in a groan. It vibrated straight into Chris’s mouth and down his spine. Then Chris moaned Dax’s name.
"Dax..."
It broke something in the alpha.
In an instant Dax’s hands were on him. One at Chris’s waist, the other sliding up his back, pulling him from the chair with an ease that felt obscene.
"Chris," Dax breathed, voice wrecked.
Before Chris could react, he was being lifted and manhandled; Dax had already turned, guiding, pressing, and placing him on the desk.
Papers scattered. A pen rolled off the edge. One of the etiquette books slammed shut from the force.
Chris’s breath hitched as his back met the smooth wood, Dax’s body caging him in completely, one hand splayed beside his head, the other gripping his hip like he needed to keep him anchored.
"Dax..."
"Say it again," Dax rasped, leaning in so close Chris felt the words on his lips more than he heard them. "Say my name again."
Chris’s heartbeat tripped. "I..."
Dax brushed his nose along Chris’s jaw, inhaling him, scenting him, his voice nothing but a plea wrapped in a command.
"Christopher. Say it."
Chris swallowed, fingers sliding up into Dax’s hair, dragging the king down until their foreheads pressed.
His voice was breathless as it came out, shattering and wanting.
"...Dax."
Dax exhaled like he’d been punched.
Then he kissed him. Harder and deeper, as if those three letters had undone every last thread of control he had been holding onto.
And Chris, hands locked in Dax’s hair, body arching into him, kissed him back like he’d been waiting all day to do it again.
Dax’s voice broke again against Chris’s mouth.
"Again."
Chris chose to ignore the command and take a deep breath, fingers still tangled in Dax’s hair, when something shifted behind his eyes. Something that made Dax’s instincts lift their heads like wolves catching the scent of a coming storm.
Chris pushed at him. "Get up," he murmured, his tone changing entirely.
Dax froze. Confused and a little undone. His hands tightened as if afraid Chris meant stop, but Chris shook his head once, sharp and certain.
"Up," he repeated.
Dax obeyed in that slow, thoughtful way unique only to him, the way a king moved when he was being indulged rather than commanded. He stepped back, breath ragged, pupils blown wide, waiting for Chris to... what? Retreat? Hide? Scold?
Chris did none of that. He slid off the desk, grabbed Dax’s wrist, and tugged.
TUGGED.
Like the King of Saha was nothing more than a large, overly affectionate wolfdog who needed relocating.
Dax let himself be pulled shamelessly, even with a flicker of excitement brightening his posture and Chris guided him around the desk, past the scattered papers, toward the sofa facing the wide window.
"Chris," Dax said, following easily, voice a low rumble of curiosity and restrained hunger. "What are you planning?"
"You’ll see."
Chris pushed lightly at Dax’s chest.
The king sat with the instant obedience of a man who knew he was being rewarded.
Chris stood before him, a quiet, mischievous smile shaping his mouth as if he already knew exactly how this would end. Dax watched him with an intensity that bordered on worship, his posture rigid with the tension of holding himself back on instinct alone. It was almost strange to see him like that, every line of his body waiting for Chris to decide the direction of the moment.
Chris took a single step back, his hands rose to the buttons of his shirt, and he began to undo them one by one, his movements maddeningly slow, letting each small sound of fabric and thread sink into the quiet between them. The shirt opened gradually, revealing warm skin and the faint rise of breath beneath it. He let the fabric slip off his shoulder with absent intention, as if he wasn’t watching Dax react, but of course he was.
When Chris glanced over his shoulder, it was a challenge, a dare wrapped in a single look.
"You can’t touch," he murmured, letting the words linger as he slid his thumb lightly over the exposed skin near his collarbone. "Not if you want more than this."