Page 54 of Knot Just for Show

I’m not wearing my glasses, so his edges are soft and blurred when my head snaps around to face Ronan. I blink a few times to make sure I’m not still a captive to my overactive imagination. Despite the lack of focus, I can tell he’s really there—and moving toward me, albeit at a glacial pace.

“I—,” I stammer, my tongue unable to find the words.

“Say the word and I’m the fuck out of here—if I misunderstood.” Ronan halts abruptly—hands up, palms out.

I know I should let go of my throbbing erection—to be embarrassed that he’s caught me jerking off thinking of him and another potential packmate…but I can’t seem to make myself do either.

“No you didn’t—I mean,” I can hear the hint of a whine in my voice, Ronan’s gamma scent—sweet geranium, woody oakmoss—the petrichor notes alchemizing the shower into a rain forest for the moment. “I don’t know how to do this—it’s the first time I’ve…” I trail off—my hard cock still twitching in my hand.

“May I?” Ronan purrs, reaching a hand out to me as he begins to draw closer once more.

“Please,” I mewl, surprised by the kittenish need in my voice.

“Like I said,” Ronan rasps, stepping close enough to come into better focus—the warm cascade of the shower flowing over his freckled shoulders. I can’t help but look down between his legs—his cock already hard, a rosy knot beginning to swell at the base. Giddy and more than a little disbelieving—I look away, turning away from him to face the brass pipe fittings ahead.

“The second you say ‘stop’—we stop.” His voice is low and tight with desire against the shell of my ear, Ronan’s hands roving over the jut of my hip bones—fingers tracing down the slight definition of my groin muscles—the pads of his fingertips swoop down the ‘V’ of exposed flesh to my own hardness in my hand.

I can feel his cock, hard between my muscular glutes—the head resting just atop the round of my ass as he rocks against me; one of his hands gently teasing the head of my cock—still caught in my iron grip.

A sound between a whimper and a moan escapes me. I hardly believe I’ve made it until I realize I’ve relinquished my hold on myself—both of my palms suddenly pressed against the tile to steady myself as Ronan strokes me hard and fast.

I let my head hang between my pinched shoulders as he fucks me with his fist—my legs trembling as I let loose another whining moan.

“Tell me when you’re close,” he huffs in my ear, his cock grinding between my slippery ass cheeks as he continues to pump me relentlessly.

“I’m fucking close,” I hiss haltingly—the sound of his voice amidst all the other stimulation catapulting me toward orgasm.

“Can I use my mouth on you?” he blurts out—his words like machine gun fire as his hand continues working at steady speed.

“Oh god I—,” I grunt out, the tight springing coil of my desire unraveling.

Between the sensation and his frank request, ‘can I use my mouth on you?’—I cum before he has the chance to get to his knees.

Mortified, I press my eyes closed—my body shuddering as Ronan quickly pivots to milking me for every last drop.

“Fuck!” I gasp—my legs wobbling threateningly as he finally relents, releasing my softening cock from his grip.

I collapse against the wall, turning slowly until my back is against the tile—watching as Ronan uses my cum as lube to finish himself off.

It doesn’t take him long—his quartz pebble eyes fixed on mine as his breath hitches and his balls jolt—his own milky seed pouring over his knuckles as he cums.

Chapter Nineteen

Mavren

I ended up getting back to my room sometime in the wee hours of the morning after my rounds of the three different pack lounges I was granted access to last night.

I’m certain that I’ll turn my key cards in to my other pack lounges before dinner tonight—the first official meal I’ll be taking with my new prospective packmates. Jesse’s lounge was filled with so many dick-measuring-alphas it felt like you could have cut the air with a knife between the musk and the aura.

No. Thank you.

Lana’s pack lounge had been just as awful but in a different way. All of her matches looking visibly disgusted after listing their academic provenances—Ivy Leagues, Oxford, athletic scholarships to historic American universities…I dare to have barely scraped by with a GED and a lifetime of apprenticeship at the elbow of my father; a Haitian immigrant, owner of a four table restaurant, and single-dad.

I couldn’t stand another second of them looking down their noses at me. Sure, I failed to mention that I’m the executive chef and owner of a hot, Michelin starred restaurant, but I don’t want guys like that to smile and play nice just because I have the money to be accepted into their club on a provisional basis.

Fuck that.

Ursula’s pack lounge ended up being a surprise in so many more ways than one.

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