Page 415 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

He just smiles and waits, with that uncanny patience, his hand gliding along my spine until the muscles in my back tense and quiver, and he doesn't have to say a word for me to know exactly what he means.

Menacing fucking alpha.

"Fine," I mutter, to the ceiling. Not to him.

His mouth curves. "Try that again, but with less dignity."

"You get one word or none."

"Then one is enough."

He rolls us.

He does it so smoothly I'm on my back before I even realize what just happened, and the mattress dips as he moves down my body, one knee braced between mine. His hand spreads flat over my stomach, warm even through the thin shirt I never took off.

"Off," he says, tugging at the hem.

"I'd rather not."

He arches an eyebrow. "Shy, are we? I'm bare." He gestures to himself.

I glower at him, at his almost freakishly perfect body, but he has scars of his own. Countless scars. Cigarette burns, marks from bullets, slices where knives went for his organs and caught his ribs instead.

Not just from fights, either. Torture, clearly.

"Just don't make any comments."

"Promise," he says smoothly.

I sit up enough to pull it over my head. He takes it out of my hands and drops it on the floor, and I twitch toward it automatically, and he catches my wrist and pins it to the mattress beside my hip.

"Leave it."

"That's the floor."

"Your floor. Which you could eat off of," he reminds me. His mouth brushes the bite scar on my throat, the one Whiskey put there, and my entire body arcs. "But I can pick it up for you, if you'd like."

His teeth graze the scar and I forget the shirt exists.

He works down. He kisses the hollow beneath my collarbone, my chest, the scar over my heart, and there he pauses. Long enough that I brace for a question I don't want to answer.

He presses his mouth to it, once, without remark, and keeps going.

My hand ends up in his white hair without any conscious decision on my part.

He noses along the line of hair below my navel and hooks two fingers into the waistband of my sweatpants, and I lift my hips before he even asks. Fucking humiliating. He drags them down and off and drops them, but on the nightstand, not the floor.

He stops, kneeling there between my legs, and he looks at me, his unreadable silver eyes traveling from my face to my cock and back. Prickling heat crawls through my body everywhere he looks, like he's putting it there with his eyes.

"Are you going to do something?" I grit out. "Or are you fucking with me?"

He tilts his head. "Do you think I was fucking with you in the hall at the game?"

I glare away from him, irritated.

He laughs, low, and then his mouth is on the inside of my thigh and the snide remark on my tongue fizzles out.

He takes his time kissing up the crease of my hip, dragging his tongue along the line where thigh meets groin. His breath is hot enough to make me squirm, and when I make another fucking unforgivable sound in the back of my throat, he does it again.