Page 207 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"And for the record," I continue, running my palms down the broad planes of his chest, "I don't compare you to anyone. Not Whiskey, not Plague, not Wraith, not Valek. You're you. You're my pack alpha. And you're the man who drove me to a secret drive-in in the middle of the woods with my favorite rainbow sour straws."

His lips part slightly.

Before I even realize what's happening, his mouth captures mine. One hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, fingers splayed wide, pulling me flush against his chest. The other finds the nape of my neck, tangling into my hair, angling my head so he can deepen the kiss without breaking contact for even a second.

I sink into him.

His tongue sweeps against my lower lip and I open for him, my fingers fisting the lapels of the suit. He tastes like blackberry wine and root beer. My back arches against his hand and the steering wheel digs into my ass, but I don't care, not even a little.

On the screen, a zombie crashes through a barn door. Someone in a nearby car screams. The horn section of the low-budget soundtrack blares through the tinny speaker hooked on our window.

I giggle into Thane's mouth and he grins against my lips.

"Ivy," he breathes, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. His chest heaves. His pupils are so dilated there's barely a ring of brown left. "I…"

I kiss him again.

He groans into it, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his ribs and into mine. His hand slides from the small of my back to my hip, thumb pressing into the curve of bone above the hem of my dress, and the restraint he's been exercising all evening frays a little more.

He'd never fully lose control, not with me. Not unless I asked him to. But the edges of his composure are blurring, and I feel it in the way his grip shifts from guiding to gripping, his mouth moving harder against mine. A breath stutters out of him when I roll my hips forward on instinct and press against him.

His hand catches my hip and holds me still. "Wait," he rasps.

"Why?"

"Because if you do that again, I'm going to forget we're in a fucking parking lot."

"Good. We're far enough away from everyone else, and you have tinted windows. They can't see us."

"Ivy…"

I roll my hips again and his resolve crumbles like wet paper.

"Fuck," he groans.

His hand slides from my hip to the curve of my ass, fingers digging in, pulling me tighter against the hard length of him through his suit pants. My hands brace against his thick torso, fingers sinking into the soft warmth over the solid muscle.

Thane is so fucking big.

His jaw clenches tighter when I shove my knee between his thighs and grind again, slowly and deliberately, and his head tips back against the headrest.

My hands find his chest. The charcoal suit jacket is warm from his body heat, and I smooth my hands down the fabric, letting my inner omega enjoy the luxury of the rich fabric for a moment. But not for long.

I'm on a fucking mission.

I slide my palms beneath the lapels and push the jacket open, spreading it wide across his shoulders. Beneath, his white dress shirt is buttoned to the third one down. A triangle of tanned skin and the hollow of his throat, the shadow of his collarbone.

I start making short work of his buttons.

His eyes drop to my fingers, half-shut as he pants, his ridiculously broad, solid chest straining at the buttons enough that it takes me extra time to get those open.

I could just tear them. But something tells me this shirt was expensive. So I resist, somehow, biting my lower lip to hold back the feral creature inside me that's screaming to just rip the fucking thing open and get to the rest of what I want.

His shirt falls open finally.

Oh, fuck yes.

Thane has always been solid, built like a wall inside and out. But the body beneath my hands isn't as lean as it was, and definitely not the hard-cut version I've seen in old game footage and press photos.