Page 31 of Wanderlust With Wolves

I shift beneath the covers, and he knows I’m awake before I make a sound.

His ears flick, his tail twitches, and I watch as he hardens for me, thickening and lengthening, his body waking to the same need that has already settled deep in my bones.

He turns to me, eyes dark with hunger.

Not for food.

For me.

He stalks to the bed, climbing over me, trapping me beneath his massive frame, his morning scent a heady mix of earth, musk, and the remnants of last night.

“You’re awake,” he rumbles.

I lick my lips, deliberately letting my gaze trail down his body, stopping right where he wants me to.

“I am now.”

After, when I’m spent and boneless, he feeds me.

First, he feasts on me.

Licking, lapping, tasting me until I’m arching, trembling, begging, my thighs shaking around his head as his tongue and fangs drive me to madness.

Then—

When I’m gasping in the aftermath, he feeds me breakfast by hand, his fingers brushing against my lips, his voice a low murmur of pleasure every time I take a bite.

It should feel filthy, the way his golden eyes track my every movement, the way he watches me swallow like he’s imagining something far more indecent?—

But somehow, it feels intimate.

Like he’s memorizing me.

Like I belong to him.

Like he belongs to me.

I push him onto his back, straddling his thick, muscular thighs, trailing my hands over his chest, tracing the lines of his scars, the ridges of his strength.

His cock is huge, flushed dark, the thick knot at the base already starting to swell.

I lean down, lick the tip, tease the underside, and his entire body shudders.

I can’t take much of him.

But I don’t need to.

I lick.

I tease.

I wrap my fingers around his length, squeezing just right, working him slowly, torturously, the way he did to me.

And when I pulse my grip around his knot, his hips jerk.

A dangerous sound rumbles from his throat, somewhere between a growl and a whimper.

I grin.

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