Page 230 of Pucking Feral: Part Two
"You brought ice cream," I say, grabbing it.
"'Course I did." He's grabbing another firecracker, one shaped like a dragon with a rocket stuffed in its jaws. "Date night."
It's soft and basically a smoothie by now, and I don't have a spoon, so I do the obvious thing. I dip two fingers in and scoop, bringing my fingers to my lips as he fires off the dragon.
It arcs into the sky in a serpentine swirl, but Whiskey doesn't even look at it. He's staring at me instead, watching with half-lidded eyes as I suck the ice cream off my fingers.
"Your turn," I pant, dipping my fingers into the ice cream again.
He barely has time to open his mouth before I push my fingers past his lips. His tongue curls around them, warm against the cold, and he sucks, slow, the hum that rolls out of him low and rough.
His honey eyes hold mine.
I don't stop grinding.
"And now it's my turn, wildcat," he says, voice rough, and before I can react he's scooping two thick fingers into the pint and pushing them past my lips.
The ice cream is cold and sweet against my tongue, cookie dough and vanilla, and just two of his fingers take up my entire fucking mouth, pressing hard enough to make me gag a little.
It's instinct.
I chomp.
"OW!" he yelps, his hips snapping up beneath me involuntarily as he yanks his hand and pulls me with it like a bear caught in a steel trap. "Dude, what the fuck! Not again!"
I release him slowly, because if I let go too fast, we're both going to get hurt, dragging my teeth along the length of his fingers as they slide free. I lick the last of the cookie dough off his knuckle.
"Oops."
"Oops?" he chokes. His hand is still hovering in the air between us, glistening, but he’s already laughing his ass off. "You just… you can't just bite a man and say OOPS."
"I am feral," I remind him, arching my back and grinding down harder.
His hand fists in my flannel. "Holy fuck, wildcat—"
I dip into the pint again one-handed, never breaking rhythm, and drag a cold stripe of it down the side of his throat just to watch him shudder. Then I lean down and lick it off, slow, while I roll my hips.
He lights another firework one-handed without even looking, sending a fat green starburst blooming over us, and I'm starting to figure out where he got all those random, aged marks and scars on his forearms.
This alpha isn't just chaos incarnate.
He's a fucking god of chaos.
I'm obsessed.
And close. So fucking close. The pressure has been building with every roll of my hips, every brush of denim against my clit, every growl and huff Whiskey makes beneath me. My thighs are burning from the effort, but I don't give a shit because this feels way too good to adjust myself into a more comfortable position that isn't as fun.
The mostly empty pint's tipped over in the grass somewhere, forgotten, but my fingers are still sticky-sweet with it and so is his jaw, and every time I drag them across his bottom lip he chases them, sucking, his hips snapping up to meet mine.
He lights three fireworks at once this time, sending overlapping bursts of color across the sky. Red and blue and white, like the Fourth of July came early just for us.
Speaking of coming—
My orgasm tears through me without warning and I cry out, head thrown back, his hips bucking hard beneath me.
"FUCK!" He surges up and buries his face in my neck, teeth finding the meat of my unscarred shoulder and biting down as he follows me over the edge. Not nearly hard enough to mark—he's controlling himself even now—but hard enough to make me gasp and clench around nothing.
The fireworks keep going off above us, forgotten fuses still burning. Green and orange and pink, exploding in starburst patterns while we cling to each other, shaking through the aftershocks.
