Shit.
Percy Porkwell should not be this good at going down on a wolf.
It defies natural law.
I grip his sheets, catching sight of the Porkwell Corp logo embroidered on the corners—because, of course, this narcissistic pork chop even monograms his bedding.
The same logo I’d seen on the bulldozers that flattened Moonpaw Heights last spring. Hundreds of wolves displaced, generations of history buried under concrete. All while Percy probably sipped champagne in some boardroom. The same company that’s bankrolled every anti-predator bill in the last decade.
Yet here I am, moaning as one of his two thick fingers pushes inside me while his tongue does unspeakable things to my clit.
“God, Ruby, you’re soaked,” he groans, and the vibration against my most sensitive parts nearly launches me off the bed. “Is this all for me, or is it just because you’re in heat?”
I grab his head and tug, perhaps a bit too roughly. “Do you ever shut up?”
“Make me,” he challenges, those beady eyes gleaming with something dangerous and thrilling.
So I do, clamping my thighs around his head and shoving his mouth and tongue right back into my dripping heat, muffling any last words he might have prepared. His tusks rub against sensitive flesh, and the obscene friction sends me reeling.
I came to argue. Not ride his tusks like I’m at a damn amusement park, but here we are.
My hands fist in his hair, pulling him deeper, which only seems to encourage the bastard. He groans against me, the sound so carnal that I have to stifle my own cries. I could leave him there forever, lost between my thighs and never coming up for air, but that feral part of me demands more.
It demands all of him.
So I relent, pulling him up my body and crashing my mouth against his.
He tastes like me, like a wolf, and the primal part of my brain—the one currently driving this terrible decision—howls in approval. His large frame presses me into the mattress, and I wrap my legs around his glorious body.
His erection prods insistently against my thigh, impressive enough to make me reconsider some wolf supremacist rhetoric I may have casually tossed around at pack gatherings. Percy Porkwell might be a pig, but there’s nothing small about what he’s packing.
He’s about to enter me when a noise from the hallway makes both our ears prick up.
“Percy? You home?” A gruff voice calls out, followed by the distinctive sound of the front door slamming.
We freeze, my legs still wrapped around him, his hardness still throbbing against my inner thigh. Percy’s eyes widen in what might be the first genuine expression I’ve seen on his smug face all night.
“Shit,” he hisses. “It’s Hamilton.”
The eldest Porkwell brother.
The CEO.
The one with the most reason to despise wolves—particularly this wolf, considering what happened between us at the city council meeting last month.
“You said they were going out of town after the gala!” I whisper-yell, shoving at Percy’s chest.
“They were supposed to be!” He scrambles off me, nearly falling over in his haste. “Ham wasn’t due back until tomorrow.”
Great. Just great.
One Porkwell brother between my legs and another was about to catch me in the act.
The headlines practically write themselves: “Wolfhart Pack Representative Caught in Pig’s Blanket.”
My alpha would disown me.
The wolf preservation committee would revoke my advocacy credentials, and my grandmother would resurrect herself to die again of shame.
