Page 228 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"I almost said fuck the plan three times tonight, you know," I tell him, releasing his finger.

His brain visibly short-circuits. "Three times? When?"

"When you handed me the sledgehammer." I lean closer. "When you made me an insane grilled cheese." Closer. My lips brush his ear. "And right now."

His breath catches. His hands tighten on my hips hard enough to leave marks of their own, and I feel him twitch beneath me.

"You can't just say shit like that," he breathes.

"Sure I can. I'm feral, remember?"

"Yeah, yeahhh," he groans, kissing the top of my head and stroking my hair back from my face.

I feel the last of the tension drain out of his body beneath mine.

"We could always do something else," I tease him.

"Oh yeah? Like what?" he asks breathlessly.

I don't answer him with words.

I twist around in his lap and grab two fistfuls of his flannel and haul myself up his chest, and his eyes go wide for half a second before I crush my mouth to his.

He makes a low, startled sound against my lips and his hands fly to my waist, steadying me, but I don't want to be steadied.

I want to climb this alpha like a tree.

I shove him backward and he lets me, sprawling back onto the plaid blanket, the fleece throw sliding off my shoulders into the grass.

"Damn, wildcat," he breathes. His hands settle on my thighs as I straddle his lap. "You just gonna take what you want, huh?"

"Yeah." I plant my palms flat on his chest and feel the thud of his heart hammering beneath his flannel. "Problem?"

"Fuck no."

I let my hands roam. Down the planes of his chest, over the slope where hard muscle gives way to the soft padding at his middle. I like it on Thane, and I like it on Whiskey, too, who's the definitive Thicc King. A slow grin curves my mouth at the purr already rumbling under my palms.

"You're like a big dog," I tell him, scratching my nails lightly through the fabric over his ribs. "If I scratch your belly are you gonna kick your leg?"

"Try it and find out," he dares.

So I do. I drag my nails in slow circles over his stomach, petting him, scritching, and he makes the most ridiculous contented noise I've ever heard, his whole chest rumbling with it, one massive thigh twitching beneath me.

I lose it.

I laugh so hard I nearly tip off him and have to catch myself on his chest, and he's grinning up at me, completely unbothered, basking in the attention like the giant golden retriever he is.

"You kicked," I accuse, wiping at my eyes. "You actually kicked your leg."

"Did not. That was a, uh, muscle spasm. Combat injury. Real serious."

"Uh-huh." I lean down and press a kiss to the center of his chest, then settle back to sitting on his stomach, my hands resting flat on him. "My poor wounded soldier."

He reaches up and tucks a strand of my dyed hair behind my ear, gentle as anything despite the size of his hands. "You gonna be a nurse and make me feel better?"

"You're corny as fuck," I tell him.

"Yeah, but you love it."