Page 38 of Down Knot Out (Pack Alphas of Misty Pines #3)

Cool and slick, the fruit glides along my swollen folds, leaving a trail of sweet juice from my entrance to the sensitive bundle of nerves at the height of my sex. The unexpected sensation draws a sharp gasp from my throat, my hips jerking forward to seek more pressure.

“Stay still,” he commands softly, the Alpha authority in his voice leaves me trembling with desire.

The strawberry disappears, replaced by his thumb spreading the juice with deliberate slowness. Each stroke sends sparks shooting up my spine, but the touch remains frustratingly light, designed to tease rather than satisfy.

Just as I think I might combust from the gentle torment, shocking cold hits my overheated skin. The whipped cream lands on my most sensitive spots, the temperature contrast so intense I cry out and try to close my legs reflexively.

But his shoulders prevent the motion, his broad frame keeping me spread open for whatever wicked plans he has in mind. More cream follows, covering my folds in white sweetness already melting from my body heat.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, the reverence in the single word tightening my chest.

Then his mouth descends, and all coherent thought evaporates in a rush of sensation so intense it threatens to overwhelm me. His tongue starts with broad, flat strokes, gathering both cream and the evidence of my arousal. He groans with appreciation.

A keening sound escapes my throat as pleasure crashes through my nervous system. His hands grip my thighs, holding me steady as his tongue explores every fold and crease with thorough determination, each stroke building pressure, and threatening to tear me apart.

His technique shifts without warning, tongue flattening to deliver firm pressure to my clit. The sudden intensity draws a strangled moan from deep inside me, and my hands fist in his golden-brown curls as my hips buck against his mouth.

“Yes,” I breathe, the word lost to another boom of thunder outside. “Don’t stop.”

He seals his lips around the swollen bundle of nerves and sucking hard, the pressure so exquisite that stars burst behind my closed eyelids.

My thighs begin to tremble, muscles quivering with the effort of holding myself open as his tongue and lips work in perfect harmony to drive me higher with each passing second.

He alternates between broad strokes to tease my entrance and focused attention on my clit, never letting me adjust to one sensation before switching to another.

His arms hook under my thighs, hands splaying across my hip bones to hold me completely open and still. The new position changes the angle slightly, allowing his tongue to delve deeper while maintaining devastating pressure on my clit.

“Holden,” I gasp, his name torn from my throat as the first waves of climax begin to tingle through me. “I’m going to?—”

He sucks harder in response, tongue flicking across my clit with the perfect pressure to break me open.

Electric pleasure races through every nerve ending, my back bowing as I sob his name.

Wave after wave crashes through me, each pulse stronger than the last, until my entire world narrows to the point where his mouth connects with my body.

He works me through every tremor, tongue gentling as the aftershocks ripple through my frame. Only when I collapse back onto the counter, boneless and gasping, does he lift his head.

Holden rises to his feet with fluid grace, the back of his hand dragging across his mouth to catch the glistening evidence of how thoroughly he wrecked me. Lightning illuminates his face for a split second, revealing slick, swollen lips and a hunger that my climax only intensified.

Pulling me back up, his mouth finds mine before I can catch my breath, the kiss deep and demanding as he shares the flavor of strawberries, cream, and my arousal on his tongue.

The combination sends fresh heat spiraling through my already sensitized body, my inner muscles clenching with renewed want despite the orgasm still pulsing through my system .

“More,” I breathe into his mouth, the word half-plea, half-demand.

My hands shake as they find his belt, fingers fumbling with the leather and metal while he continues kissing me. The buckle gives way under my desperate tugging, his button and zipper following.

He helps with urgent movements, shoving jeans and boxers down far enough to free himself. The sight of his cock, hard and flushed and already beading with pre-cum, sends another wave of heat crashing through me. He’s thick enough to stretch me, and long enough to hit places that make my toes curl.

He grips my hips, thumbs finding the dips below my hip bones as he steps closer. The broad head of his cock brushes my entrance, the contact drawing twin groans from both our throats. But instead of sliding home, he teases me with shallow strokes to gather my slick on his tip.

“Please,” I whimper, trying to shift forward to take him deeper. “Holden, please.”

His grip tightens, holding me still as he slides his length through my folds, the thick shaft dragging across my still-sensitive clit. Each stroke sends aftershocks through me, pleasure and need building until I shiver with desire .

His body trembles with the effort to hold back. “Say my name again.”

“Holden,” I gasp, the word torn from my throat as he repeats the maddening motion. “Holden, Holden, Holden?—”

His name dissolves into a cry of pure relief as he thrusts home in one powerful stroke.

The sudden fullness steals my breath, my body stretching to accommodate his size.

Perfect doesn’t begin to describe how he fills every empty place inside me, completing a connection that runs deeper than physical.

For a heartbeat, we remain frozen as we adjust to the sensation of being joined. His breathing comes in harsh pants that match my own, both of us caught in the connection after so much teasing.

Then he moves, and coherent thought flees.

His rhythm starts with deep strokes dragging across every sensitive spot inside me. But control was never meant to last, not with lightning splitting the sky and thunder shaking the foundations beneath us. The storm’s violence stirs a primal force in the way he moves.

His hands slide from my hips to cup my ass, fingers digging into my soft flesh as he changes the angle. The new position allows him to drive deeper, harder, each thrust sending me sliding backward on the smooth counter surface only to be pulled forward again by his grip.

“Harder.” The ache inside me coils tighter. “Don’t hold back.”

He responds by snapping his hips forward with enough force that our flesh slaps together in a rhythm that accentuates the gasps and moans that fill the kitchen.

My heels dig into his back, using the leverage to meet each thrust with equal desperation. The friction builds heat between us until sweat beads on our skin despite the storm’s cool air seeping through window frames.

Without breaking his rhythm, he reaches for the bowl of whipped cream, fingers emerging coated in white sweetness. He spreads it along my collarbone in a diagonal line before his mouth follows, tongue hot as he licks the cream.

The combination of his tongue on my throat and his cock driving deep inside me pushes me toward another peak with frightening speed. My inner muscles begin to flutter around him, drawing a strangled groan from his throat as I clench around his length.

“That’s it.” His teeth scrape the delicate skin behind my ear. “Come for me again.”

He thrusts deep, hitting that sweet spot inside me, and a second orgasm crashes through me, stealing my breath and vision as pleasure explodes outward from where our bodies join.

“Holden!” His name tears from my throat as my thighs lock around his waist, holding him deep inside me as my body clenches around him.

My climax triggers his own, and he slams deep one final time before pressure builds, his knot locking in place. It feeds my bone-deep desire to be filled even before he spills inside me with a shaking gasp.

We remain frozen within the perfect moment, his hands braced on the counter beside my hips while his forehead rests on my shoulder. Our breathing comes in ragged synchronization, chests rising and falling together as we float in the aftermath of shared release.

His hair tickles my collarbone where sweat has made the golden-brown strands curl tighter.

The vanilla cake scent of his pheromones mingles with my lilies and lilac and the musk of our joining, creating an intoxicating blend that wraps around me in pure joy.

Every nerve ending still hums with satisfaction, my body languid and heavy in the best way possible.

His thumb traces my cheekbone and pushes back my sweaty hair. “Are you okay? ”

I hum with contentment and brush my lips across his, tasting salt and sweetness and the lingering flavor of strawberries.

The pressure inside me eases as his knot releases, and he pulls out slowly, both of us hissing softly at the separation. The emptiness left behind aches before his hands smooth over my thighs in soothing strokes.

From beneath the counter, he produces a clean kitchen towel, the kind he keeps on hand for quick access during his baking. The soft cotton is warm as he cleans us both with gentle efficiency, the intimacy wrecking me all over again.

He presses the towel between my legs to catch any remaining dampness. “Better?”

“Much.” My throat feels rough from calling his name.

He drops the towel into what I assume is a hamper hidden beneath the counter and returns his attention to me with the same careful tenderness he just finished cleaning us up with. His palms cup my knees, thumbs tracing small circles over the bones.

“Want to finish the scone?” he asks, gesturing to the pastry sitting next to the bowl of whipped cream. “For quality control.”

The suggestion carries no real expectation. He’s offering because caring for others, feeding them, comes to him as naturally as breathing. But my body is heavy with satisfaction, muscles loose and warm, and even sitting upright takes effort.

“Only if you feed them to me in bed,” I respond, already knowing what his answer will be.

Joy brightens his features. The weight of his earlier fears, the terror that he couldn’t protect me, that his gentle nature means he's weak, won’t be resolved in one night, but we’ll get there. We have the time.

“Deal,” he says.

He helps me down from the counter, hands steady on my waist as my feet find the floor. My legs wobble for a moment, aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through sensitive muscles, but his solid presence beside me provides all the support I need.

While he gathers a selection of scones and strawberries into a small bowl, I retrieve my discarded clothes from the floor. The tank top goes back on easily enough, but the onesie takes more coordination. My fingers fumble with the zipper, still clumsy with satisfaction.

“Here.” He sets the bowl aside to help, hands gentle as they guide the zipper up my throat. The gesture carries a different kind of intimacy, one rooted in quiet care.

“Thank you.”

His forehead touches mine. “Thank you for letting me take care of you.”

He picks up the bowl of strawberries and offers me his free hand. “Come on. Let’s get you properly fed and settled.”

I take his hand without hesitation, fingers intertwining with his as he leads me toward the door, leaving the worries of the night behind, for now.