Page 164 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

I lunge for his phone.

He rolls sideways, holding it above his head with one arm while fending me off with the other, and Valek watches us grapple with the cool detachment of a man observing wildlife.

Whiskey's phone goes off.

He holds me back with one palm splayed across my chest and reads it. His face splits into a grin.

"What did you say to her?" I demand.

He turns the phone toward me.

WHISKEY

Hey quick question

Can Plague suck Valek's cock?

IVY

if you send me a picture of my alphas having fun

The sound that leaves my mouth is not language.

It is the death rattle of my dignity.

"I'm not exactly her alpha," Valek says dryly, eyeing the phone.

Whiskey wrestles away from me. "Dude. She claimed you in front of the entire league. You confirmed it on the record tonight. And that wasn't just a cover, however much I think you're fuckin' tapped, bro."

And he yanks my pants down with zero ceremony.

I don't even have time to bitch at him about how I'd rather not hear his favorite word other than fuck in bed. He inhales my cock all the way to the back of his throat with the same exact gusto he inhaled the spring roll.

My head drops back against Valek's shoulder before I can stop it.

Whiskey doesn't pace himself. I'm sure Whiskey has never paced himself in his entire life, and tonight isn't the night he starts. His hands pin my thighs apart like he's worried I might change my mind and slam them shut on his head, which is a laughable concern given that my body has apparently relocated all decision-making authority to my cock, which is completely buried in his wet, hot mouth.

Valek's arm tightens around my waist.

"Breathe," he murmurs into my ear.

"I am fucking breathing."

"Through your nose."

I snarl something in Arabic that would make my grandmother scold me posthumously, and Valek laughs. It's a rough, quiet sound, and his free hand slides up my ribs underneath my turtleneck and finds my nipple. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from making another one of those humiliating noises.

This is simply a structured observation. I'm gathering data to keep our mate safe.

Whiskey hums around me and I gather a lot of fucking data.

My fingers find his thick chestnut hair without permission. I tug once, testing, and he groans. The vibration travels straight up my spine and into whatever part of my brain still thinks it's in charge.

I tug again, harder, and Whiskey's eyes lift to mine, glassy and pleased, and he hollows his cheeks and takes me deeper, and the hand Valek has on my chest flattens over my heart like he's counting beats. His finger is dangerously close to my scar and I lock up.

"Focus," Valek says.

"On what," I grit out.