Page 35 of Taken By The Wolves
My pulse roars, and then I shift.
Still on my knees, I slide to face him, and he’s already there, waiting. Hard, thick, flushed, his erection stands bold against the open cradle of denim. He’s quietly offering himself in a way that shakes something loose inside me.
I bend, and he groans as my palms press into his muscular thighs. His fingers twitch where they rest at his sides. I take him slow with a soft kiss at first, my lips brushing the head, and then a slow, teasing lick. His groan turns strangled as I wrap my mouth around him, and histaste floods my senses: salt, heat, the unique tang of wild, creative Finn.
It’s different than with Reed. He’s quieter, his body taut with restraint, and yet he leans into me like he’s desperate to drown in the pleasure I offer.
And I give it freely.
I want this.
I wantthem.
As dangerous as it is to succumb to their rugged, handsome charms, I can’t regret a thing.
A footstep and the vibration of a presence close to my spine alert me to Nixon’s approach.
My heart skitters, but my mouth doesn’t stop. My lips glide, my tongue curves, and Finn’s thighs tremble beneath my hands. But my awareness has split. Nixon is close, and my thighs clench. I’m still wearing my panties, but my whole ass is on display for his pleasure.
One is watching as I take another into my mouth, and the third stalks closer, his intentions unknown.
I lose myself to the heavy fog of lust and the danger of surrender that curls in my veins. It’s the kind of feeling that cracks you open from the inside and spills all your hidden longings.
I’m falling.
Into them, and into this moment.
I’m facing up to desires I didn’t dare to admit, even to myself.
And as I sink deeper into Finn’s lap, his restraint frays with every stroke of my tongue. My awareness sharpens around Nixon’s heat at my back. He hasn’t touched me yet. But he will.
And when he does, I know I won’t survive it unchanged.
17
NIXON
Scarlet is moving between my brothers, worshipping at their feet the way a mate would. Reed is flushed and spent, slumped into the couch, chest heaving and eyes wide. He holds her hand gently, maintaining contact even as she touches his brother. Finn is quiet and taut beside him, chest rising in slow, steady hums as she bobs her head in his lap, taking his cock deep into her throat.
And I’m behind her, my gut tightening with every clench of her thighs. She’s so wet that the lace is clinging to the cleft of her pussy, outlining what I’ve touched but not seen, what I’ve tasted from my fingers but not directly.
She’s the driving force behind this, not my plan or my schedule. But that’s what makes it impossible to resist.
Her scent curls into my senses like incense, and I can’t think of anything but the sweet taste of her. My cock throbs, heavy and impatient, a lesson in restraint I’ve practiced all my life because I know how easily this can end in premature ravishment and loss, something none of us wants.
My wolf howls at me to throw caution to the wind, but my human self holds the reins tightly because she hasn’t invited me yet. She hasn’t locked her consent in place with her eyes or voice. But still, she chose this path the moment she went from accepting pleasure to giving. Finn would have walked away like I did last night, to handle his business in the quiet of his room, but she wanted more.
It’s a silent dance: her lips wrapped around Finn, her lashes half-closed, and my own gaze riveted to the small space between her thighs, the part of her that belongs to me and my brothers but is still a threshold she bars or allows entry at her will.
She turns her head to look over her shoulder, and her eyes meet mine, wide, lust-soaked, feral even, and my hand moves of its own volition. I bring my fingertips up to brush her center, and I groan at the gentle give, the dampness, and the tremor of her muscles under my palm.
Her look says it all.You can, if you want. Try to see what I say.
My cock presses into my palm inside the confines of my jeans. It would take nothing to free myself and slip inside her, to mark her with my scent. I’d write myself so deep, I’d leave no doubt as to where this woman belongs and to whom. But if I do it now, can I hold back my wolf instinct, or will the scent of her nape call to my fangs? Will I go all the way and claim her, and what then?
It’s too soon.
She doesn’t know what we are. She doesn’t know what she is to us, and what it means to be claimed.
