Page 208 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

He's thick. Like Clark fucking Kent with longer hair and dadbod. His muscled pecs strain with every ragged breath, and lower, his stomach is soft over the dense hardness. His obliques have filled out, too, his sides wider, his torso filling the entire open shirt. His warm skin gives under my palms when I press my hands in until I hit the unyielding wall of muscle beneath.

He laughs nervously and tries to suck in.

Fuck, he is so fucking cute.

"Don't you dare," I purr, dragging my nails up from his stomach to his chest, slow enough to feel every ridge and every place where hard becomes soft and soft becomes hard again. His breath hitches. "I love your body. Every inch."

I flash a grin at the clueless alpha so he gets the double meaning there.

The breath caught in his throat escapes him. "Ivy⁠—"

I lean forward and press my open mouth against his collarbone, tasting salt and the faint ghost of his cologne. His hand comes up and cups the back of my head, fingers sinking into my hair with a low, uncertain purr of his own.

I roll my hips again.

The friction sends a bolt of heat straight up my spine and his hand tightens in my hair. His other hand grips the curve of my hip hard enough to leave fingerprints on my skin beneath the dress.

Good.

I want the marks.

I want all the marks.

Speaking of which…

I set a rhythm. Slow, grinding circles that drag the seam of my underwear against the hard length of him through his suit pants. Thank fuck I'm wearing a dress. This feels good enough my thighs are already shaking, but it isn't enough to tip either of us over the edge.

His hips buck up involuntarily and his hand flies to my waist to stop himself, jaw clenching, the cable-like tendons in his forearms standing out.

"Sorry," he grits out.

"Don't apologize." I push his shirt open wider, baring more of him, my fingers tracing the hard swell of his shoulder beneath the jacket. "Don't ever apologize for wanting me."

His eyes darken to near-black.

I pull the last button free and dive down, following the newly exposed bronzed skin with my mouth, kissing down the center of his chest, feeling the hammer of his heart against my lips. When I drag my tongue along the ridge of his left pectoral, his whole body jerks.

"Ivy—fuuuuck⁠—"

I grind down harder.

His head slams back against the headrest and the groan that tears out of him is the kind of sound the pack alpha buries deep beneath his completely fucking false composure.

He doesn't have to be composed with me.

Not tonight.

"I have a question for you," I whisper, nipping at his flesh.

He gives a low warning growl, gripping the back of my head to angle my mouth away so I can't bite him again, and I give him a grin in return that's probably completely fucking maniacal.

"What is it?" he whispers back, panting.

My fingers find the edge of my dress strap. The one on my left side. The thin green fabric resting against the raised, pearlescent scar where another, less wanted mark used to be, before I burned it away.

I slide the strap off my shoulder.

Thane's gaze drops to it. His hand leaves my jaw and hovers, not quite touching, fingers suspended an inch above the scarred skin.