Page 15 of Wanderlust With Wolves

Maya’s entire face lights up.

The way she smiles, her obvious pleasure at seeing him safe, warms something in my chest.

She scoops him up, holding him close as she nuzzles against his soft fur, murmuring words of affection.

And I am left in the shadows, aching.

She disappears inside, and I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face.

I need sleep.

I needdistance.

I turn, making my way back to my own cabin, forcing myself to ignore the insistent, pulsing need that has been building since the moment I laid eyes on her.

I should let it be.

Should let thiswantsettle,temper itself, bury it deep.

I climb into the shower, letting the hot stream punish my skin.

All I can think about is her in the bathtub, pleasuring herself. Her head tilted back, eyes closed, lashes resting on her cheeks. I grow hard for her, the knot at the base of my cock swells. I stroke myself, imagining how tight her hot little cunt will be around me. I'd work myself into her channel, marking her so deeply she will only want me.

I come thinking of her smiling face, how I'll paint her body with my scent. Enough for her to bathe in. I grow hard again and shoot my load, ropes of cum gushing out. I'd fill her to the brim, seal her with my knot, and still would be leaking out of her.

I shower until the water cools. I shake off the excess from my fur and step out to towel dry the rest. When I finally lie down, the pressure in my gut only gets worse, burning through every muscle, every inch of my skin, until I know the only relief I will ever feel from this point forward is when she accepts my knot.

By 11AM sharp,I’m at her door, eager in a way I haven’t felt in years.

Maya steps out, fresh-faced and bright-eyed, the faintest hint of lavender and honey lingering on her skin.

I watch her, and something settles deep inside me.

She chose to spend this time with me.

She could’ve refused. Could’ve changed her mind.

But shedidn’t.

That means something.

We drive into town, the roads winding through towering pines and sleepy mountain cottages, past the small but thriving center of Avalon Vale.

“This is surreal,” she murmurs, looking out the window. “It’s like stepping into a storybook.”

I glance at her. “Good surreal?”

She grins. “The best kind.”

Brunch is at The Misty Brew, a cafe nestled near the main square, its outdoor patio bathed in golden sunlight.

We settle into a small, cozy corner, the scent of fresh-baked bread and brewed coffee wrapping around us.

Maya orders a stack of wild berry pancakes, already plotting her syrup-to-bite ratio with precision. I get a plate of roasted root vegetables and smoked venison—a solid, hearty meal.

But the food?

It’ssecondary.

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