"Are you going to run your mouth all night, or are you going to actually do something useful?" I ask hoarsely.
What am I saying? This is Whiskey, my irritating, boundary-pushing packmate who I can barely tolerate. Yet here I am,practically begging for his touch because the watching omega's heat has me so wound up I can hardly think straight.
And if I don't get release, I'm going to explode.
His laugh rumbles through both of us. "Bossy. I like it."
Then he's kissing down my throat, and I have to bite back an embarrassing sound because apparently my neck is far more sensitive than I realized. His teeth scrape against my pulse point—not hard enough to mark, we're not complete animals—and my hips jerk up involuntarily.
"Fuck," I hiss, mortified.
"That's the idea," Whiskey says against my skin, and I can feel his smile. The smug bastard. His hands are at the hem of my turtleneck now, tugging insistently. "This needs to go."
"Absolutely not." I grab his wrists, stopping him. The thought of being that exposed, that vulnerable, makes my skin crawl.
He pulls back to look at me, and there's something in his expression that's almost... soft. Understanding. It's deeply unsettling. I much prefer when he doesn't give a shit.
"Okay," he says simply. "Pants though?"
I consider this. My dick is currently trying to burst through the zipper, so perhaps some compromise is necessary. "Fine."
He grins like I've given him a damn gift, and his big hands move to my belt with surprising dexterity. Within seconds, he's got it undone, along with the button and zipper of my slacks. The relief when he frees my cock is immediate but intense in a different way.
"Fuck me," Whiskey breathes, staring down at me with wide eyes. "You've been hiding all this under those pretentious designer clothes?"
"They're not pretentious," I argue, even as my ears get hot again.
"They're criminal is what they are." His hand wraps around me, and my entire body goes rigid as he looks at me like I'm a five-course meal and he's been starving for weeks. "Look at you. Fucking perfect."
"Stop staring and do something," I snap, because if he keeps looking at me like that I mightactuallysnap.
"Bossy," he says again, but he's already moving down my body, pressing kisses to my chest through the fabric of my turtleneck. "I really do like that about you."
"You don't like anything about me," I remind him. "We barely tolerate each other."
He pauses, looking up at me through his lashes. "You really believe that?"
"It's an observable fact."
"Yourobservable factsare bullshit," he says, and then his mouth is on my cock and I stop thinking entirely.
Holy fuck.
I've received oral sex before. I'm not a monk. But this is... different. And not just because he's a guy, and an alpha. Whiskey attacks my cock like it's personally offended him, all wet heat and suction and absolutely no technique whatsoever. It should be terrible. Instead, my hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the chestnut strands as my hips buck up without my permission.
"Did you learn to give head in a tornado?" I choke out.
He pulls off with an obscene pop. "You complaining?"
"No," I growl through my teeth. "I'm… providing constructive criticism."
"Here's some constructive criticism for you," he says, and then swallows me down to the edge of my knot.
My vision whites out. There's no other way to describe it. One moment I'm lying on a hotel loveseat maintaining some semblance of dignity, and the next I'm arching off the cushions making sounds I regret every time a new one flies out of my mouth.
Whiskey hums around me, the vibration traveling up my spine like lightning. His hands grip my thighs, holding me steady as he works me over with single-minded determination.
I know Ivy is watching us. I can feel her eyes on him, on me, her scent growing thicker in the air. Part of me wants to be embarrassed, but a larger part—the part currently getting its brain sucked out through its dick—doesn't care about anything except the wet heat of Whiskey's mouth.
