Page 126 of Found by the Pack

“Most people wouldn’t.” I nip at her throat, my voice dark. “But I know how to handle messy.”

Her gasp is all the permission I need. I spin her, bending her over the worktable, papers scattering across the floor. Her skirt hikes up, tights tearing under my impatient hands. She cries out when I thrust into her, rough, needy, no preamble.

The sound she makes echoes in the cavernous basement, raw and wrecked.

“Fuck, Sadie,” I groan, pounding into her, each thrust shaking the table. My hands grip her hips hard enough to bruise. She arches back against me, head tipped, hair falling wild around her face.

“You feel—so good,” she gasps, voice breaking on the words.

Her body clenches around me, slick and hot, and I lose myself. All the guilt, all the restraint, all the quiet—I shed it like skin, reduced to nothing but instinct and need.

I fuck her until the light above us sways, until my breath is ragged and her moans turn frantic. My hand snakes up her front, palming her breast, pinching her nipple until she cries out.

She shatters around me with a scream, her nails clawing the wood. I follow, spilling into her with a groan that rips out of my chest, collapsing forward against her back.

The sound of our panting fills the silence.

And then?—

“Shepard?” Marjorie’s voice calls faintly from upstairs. “Are you down there?”

We freeze.

Sadie’s shoulders shake, and then she’s laughing—soft, breathless, wicked. I can’t help it. I laugh too, forehead pressed to her shoulder.

“Be right up!” I shout, forcing my voice steady.

She wiggles against me, turning her head with a grin. “I’m looking forward to tonight’s dinner.”

I groan, kissing her neck one more time before pulling back. “You’re going to kill me.”

She just smirks, and God help me, I’d let her.

CHAPTER 31

Sadie

“You’re quiet,” Boone says.

I glance up from the cardboard box of beers I’ve been opening, caught off guard by the way his voice cuts through the steady clatter of pans and the low hum of the stove’s fan.

“I’m not,” I murmur, even though we both know it’s a lie. My fingers work automatically, slipping bottles into the cooler filled with ice, condensation slicking my skin.

It’s been about ten minutes since I got here. Ten minutes since I stepped into Boone’s apartment with the smell of garlic and onion hitting me full in the face and the sight of him moving effortlessly around his kitchen.

Ten minutes since I forced myself to act like nothing had happened—when the truth is, I’m still reeling.

Because no matter how steady I tried to sound earlier, what happened in Shepard’s basement hasn’t left me. My body still thrums with it. The heat, the reckless way he touched me, the sharp relief of scent matching with someone when I thought I was too broken for that ever to happen again.

Boone stirs something in a pan, the muscles in his arm flexing under the sleeve of his T-shirt. “You’re quiet,” he repeats.

I lick my lips, trying to chase away the taste of nerves. Instead of answering him directly, I say, “Did you manage to talk to Gabe?”

He shakes his head, frustration flashing in his eyes. “No. There was a bushfire out past the ridge, and he was called in. I’m hoping he shows up later.”

He looks at me then, really looks. His eyes sharpen, zeroing in. “Is that why you’re nervous?”

The easy answer would be yes. But Boone has always deserved better than easy answers.