Page 229 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

The worst part is he's right.

I do love it.

I love him, this big ridiculous golden retriever of an alpha who planned an entire date around letting me scream and break things and then fed me the best grilled cheese of my life under the stars.

I adjust my position in his lap to get more comfortable, settling against him, and his hands tighten around my thighs.

"Ivy," he breathes, honey eyes going dark. "You keep movin' like that and we're gonna have a problem."

I roll my hips experimentally and feel exactly what kind of problem he means pressing against my ass. He's already half-hard beneath me, his breath catching under my hands.

"Doesn't feel like a problem to me," I murmur, leaning over him to press my lips to the stubble along his jaw.

His hands tighten on my hips. "Thought you were sore."

"I am." I kiss the corner of his mouth. "But there's more than one way to have fun."

He groans, low and rough, and the sound vibrates through his chest and into mine. "You're gonna fuckin' kill me, wildcat."

"Maybe." I rock against him again, slower this time, finding the angle where the seam of my jeans presses against my clit just right. "But what a way to go."

Whiskey's head falls back against the blanket, exposing his throat. I lean down and drag my teeth along the thick column, nipping at his pulse point, and he makes a noise that's somewhere between a growl and a whining groan.

"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, Ivy."

I love that I can do this to him. That this massive alpha who could bench press the whole damn moon turns into a desperate mess under my hands, even when I'm feeling frumpy in his oversized flannel with my hair sticking up everywhere.

I settle more firmly in his lap and start moving more deliberately, grinding down against the hard ridge of him through our jeans.

His hands slide up under my flannel, calloused palms skating over my ribs, my waist, the curve of my spine. He doesn't try to take control, doesn't flip me beneath him or demand more.

"Whiskey," I breathe against his throat. "The fireworks."

"Huh?" He sounds completely dazed.

"You promised me fireworks."

"Oh." He blinks, brain clearly rebooting. "Oh, shit. Yeah. Okay. Yeah."

He fumbles blindly beside us until his hand closes on a Roman candle. I watch him dig a lighter out of his pocket with his free hand while I continue rocking against him, grinding slow circles that make his eyes flutter shut.

"You're evil," he accuses breathlessly.

"Learned from the best."

He lights the fuse and holds the Roman candle up toward the sky just as I grind down particularly hard. The first burst of color explodes above us, brilliant red against the black, and Whiskey moans.

"Oh, fuck…"

I don't stop moving. I watch the fireworks bloom overhead, one after another, crimson and gold and electric blue, as I ride Whiskey's lap. The fleece throw has fallen away somewhere, leaving me exposed to the cool night air, but I'm burning up from the inside and he's a living furnace.

"Ivy." His voice has gone ragged. He's trying to put the throw back on my shoulders even now, his eyes rolling back into his head. "Ivy, I'm⁠—"

"I know," I pant. I feel him straining beneath me, his hips hitching up to meet mine despite his attempts at control. "Me too. More… more fireworks, Whiskey."

"Demanding," he huffs, but he's grinning, already reaching for another one. This one shoots up into the sky with a whistling shriek before exploding into a shower of silver sparks.

Something cold bumps my knee and I glance down. There's a pint of cookie dough shoved into the side of the paper bag from the cooler, sweating through it.