Page 63 of The Pack's Knotty Runaway
He zips his jeans open, and then he’s there—hot and thick against my thigh. I loop a leg around his waist, fisting his jacket.
“Fuck me,” I say.
He pushes in.
It’s a deep, grounding, splitting fullness, and everything inside me lights up like somebody just threw a switch—that high, clear, ringing note of rightness I keep trying to resist but never can.
Mine,my omega sighs, finally satisfied.
“Luna—” Reed’s voice is a wrecked growl, his hips stuttering as the thickness catches at my entrance, stretching me wider on every drag back.
“Yes,” I whisper, my fingers buried in his hair, my walls clamping down around him. “Reed, yes.”
He seats himself deep, the knot expanding fully inside me, locking us together as he spills into my core. A long, shuddering sigh escapes him, his forehead resting in the crook of my neck.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, holding him tight against the cool air of the shed. For fifteen minutes, we just stay there, locked together in the quiet, his heartbeat a steady thud against my chest. His arms are wrapped secure around my waist, keeping me flush against his heat and I feel safer than I’ve felt in months.
Slowly, the knot deflates. Reed slides out with a soft, reluctant sigh. He reaches down to help me pull up my leggings and—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Reed mutters, zipping his jeans.
“Trap’s sprung,” I say, checking the scrolling green text. “Someone’s moving.”
He swears under his breath. “Behind me,” he says, and pushes the door open.
We burst out into the blinding light, Reed already covering the gravel to the staging bay in a flat sprint. I do my best to keep up, but he’s obviously faster, and it doesn’t help that with every stride, his warm cum slides down into my underwear—the wetness incredibly uncomfortable.
Up ahead, a figure is walking quickly away from the entrance of the staging bay, casting a nervous look back at the cardboard camera zip-tied to the beam.
“Hey!” Reed barks.
The figure bolts, but he’s moving too fast and slams straight into a wall with a loud yelp.
We close the distance and discover a teenager dressed in oversized jeans, a faded Honeycreek High hoodie, and red Chuck Taylors. He has a crowbar gripped in one fist and looks like he’s about a second away from wetting himself.
“Drop it,” Reed says, grabbing him by the sweatshirt.
The crowbar clatters onto the gravel.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” The kid’s voice cracks, his hands coming up. “I saw the camera and was gonna leave! I didn’t break anything, I swear. I was just supposed to knock some bins over.”
I stop beside Reed, chest heaving. “Who told you to do that?”
The kid looks up, wide-eyed, trembling. “Some guy. In town. He gave me forty bucks cash. Said it was a prank on the orchard guys.”
“What did he look like?” Reed asks.
“I don’t know! Just some alpha. White, brown hair, average height. Thirty-something, maybe. I’d never seen him around Honeycreek before yesterday.”
Reed lets go of the kid’s hoodie with a heavy sigh. “The cash. Hand it over, and get off the property. If I see you back here, I’m calling my brother Bram. He’s with the county sheriff.”
The teenager scrambles to pull two crumpled twenty-dollar bills from his pocket, shoves them into Reed’s hand, and bolts.
Reed watches him go, folding the bills.
“White, brown hair, average height,” I say, crossing my arms. “That really narrows it down.”
