Page 33 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

I moan, furious with myself, furious with him ; with the way his voice turns sharp when he’s like this, with the way my body gives in anyway.

He shoves my panties aside, no pretense, no warning, and drags two fingers through the slick coating my slit.

He groans—deep, low, fucking feral —then raises them to my lips.

“Go on, baby,” he grins. “Taste what hating me does to you.”

“Fuck you,” I whisper, but I open my mouth anyway.

He shoves them in, and I suck, watching his pupils blow wide as I drag my tongue along the length of them. He’s panting now, grinding against me, rutting as though he’s seconds from snapping.

“You want it like before?” he hisses. “Rough and raw?”

I moan around his fingers.

“You want me to fuck the hate out of you?”

I don’t answer. I can’t . I’m too busy losing my fucking mind as he grabs me by the hips and flips me around, face pressed to the wall, breath ragged. His chest hits my back, solid and scorching hot, and he doesn’t waste a second—hips slamming forward, pinning me into place.

“I should make you crawl,” he growls, voice like broken glass and hunger, rough and sharp against the shell of my ear. “Make you spread your pretty little thighs and beg like the needy fucking brat you are.”

I bare my teeth in a snarl, grinding back into him. “I’m not begging.”

He laughs, cruel and low, one hand palming my ass, the other gripping my jaw.

“You always say that. And you always do.”

My scent betrays me as it floods the space between us, no longer blocked or hidden by my patch, sweet and slick and desperate. His reaction is immediate, and near violent.

“ Fuck ,” he bites out, yanking my panties down my thighs with a single brutal motion, “You’re already soaked.”

He drags two fingers through my wetness, then groans. “I knew it,” he snarls, voice wrecked. “Knew you were hiding this from me. You reek for me, sweetheart. You always have.”

His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back so my throat arches for him, exposing the scent gland at the base of my neck.

“You think I don’t remember what this fucking neck tastes like?” He leans in, dragging his nose down my pulse point. “Think I forgot the way your scent goes syrup-thick when you’re seconds from breaking?”

“Shut up,” I whisper, but it's pathetic. I can already feel slick coating the insides of my thighs, my knees softening, pulse thudding loud in my throat.

And he hasn’t even fucked me yet.

I hear his zipper and then he lines himself up behind me, dragging the thick head of his cock through my dripping slit—taunting, teasing, letting it catch right at my entrance and smearing wet across my inner thighs.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “All this attitude, all this fight, and still soaking for me.”

He pushes forward just enough to make me whimper, then pulls back. Taunting me.

“You think Jace and Cam made you needy ?” His teeth scrape down my throat. “They don’t know how to ruin you.”

“Maybe I just felt bad for you,” I pant. “Call it pity slick.”

He stills just long enough for me to smirk over my shoulder; but then he growls, grabs my waist, and slams in with one brutal thrust.

I cry out as my body jolts forward, hands scrabbling at the wall, spine arching in a sharp, involuntary curve as he splits me open.

It’s too much.

It’s perfect .

“Say that again,” he pants against my ear. “Fucking dare you.”

“You want honesty?” I spit. “You fuck like you’ve got something to prove.”

“I do.” He slams in again, deeper, rougher. “I’m proving I’m the only alpha who can take you like this.”

His hips snap against my ass as he thrusts into me, quick and hard and fast, and my eyes roll to the back of my head even as I try and fight it.

“The only thing you’re proving is you’ve got unresolved anger issues,” I manage to say through gritted teeth.

His hand flies to my throat; his way of saying enough .

“You feel that?” he growls, grinding in, deeper, harder, until my breath catches on a sob. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like. Stretching you. Filling you. Owning you.”

He sets a hard, punishing rhythm, fucking me with punishing precision, each thrust vicious and controlled, like he’s holding years of resentment in his fists and driving it straight into me.

“You’re a fucking brat ,” he growls. “Always were.”

“And yet you’re still obsessed,” I rasp. “So what does that make you?”

The slap of skin on skin echoes sharp in the room as my moans go raw and ragged, and his scent floods me, thick and feral and alpha . That same signature musk I used to breathe in from the pillow when he left is now wrapped around my body like a noose.

“You belong like this,” he snarls. “Pinned to the wall, dripping and helpless. Mouthy little cunt finally put in her place.”

His hand squeezes around my neck, and I melt under it, whimpering, slick gushing, everything inside me screaming to give in, to submit .

“You want to come like this, brat? Want to be wrecked with your face against the fucking wall?”

“I want you to shut up and finish what you started,” I growl right back.

“Oh, I’m finishing it,” he laughs, rutting into me. “I’m just reminding you who owned this pussy first .”

I scoff at his arrogance, even as my cunt flutters around him. “You never owned me.”

He growls again—feral now—and his hand fists in my hair as he drives in even harder, scent flooding every inch of me, hot and primal and wrong in all the right ways.

“I still do,” he snarls. “And this greedy little cunt proves it.”

I moan, fury and heat blurring into one. My legs tremble. My walls clench.

He’s going to break me. He’s going to win .

“Say it,” he demands, voice like thunder. “Say you’re mine.”

“Get fucked,” I bite out, lips curling.

“I am,” he pants. “And so are you.”

He doesn’t let up. His rhythm turns savage, and I can’t stop it—the slick, the moans, the way my traitorous body chases his every thrust.

“I hate you,” I choke, even as I’m melting into it.

He slams in harder, dragging a wrecked gasp from my throat. “No, you don’t. You fucking love this. You need this,” he insists, squeezing just enough. “You need to be handled by your alpha . That’s why you’ve been acting up, isn’t it?”

I whimper; humiliated and undone, body flooding with slick as he ruins me right there in the middle of my fucking living room.

“You fight and you push and you lie ,” he pants. “But this little pussy—” he slaps my ass, then my thigh, his cock still buried deep—“this knows who it belongs to.”

My head spins as the room tilts. I’m nothing but nerve endings and wet heat and ruined dignity.

“Filthy fucking omega,” he hisses, each word punctuated by the sharp snapping of his hips. “All that mouth and you’re still bending for me. Still taking it.”

He bites at my shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, but not deep enough or tender enough to be a claim. I yelp, but it makes my cunt flutter around him—tight, desperate, and slick.

“See?” he sneers. “You like it when I’m mean. You like being put in your place.”

My body’s betraying me with every twitch of my hips, every pathetic whimper that slips free, every drop of slick that coats the base of his cock and my trembling thighs.

“You gonna cry?” he grits out. “Gonna sob like a good little slut while I fuck you stupid?”

His hand slips between my thighs, rubbing over my clit in hard, punishing circles; and my whine of pleasure rips from my throat like a confession.

He keeps going.

“Say it,” he demands, pounding into me. “Say you’re mine.”

I shake my head as I try to hold on, try to keep even one ounce of pride—

But I can’t .

White-hot heat floods through my body as he pinches his fingers around my clit, and I’m moaning, crying, unraveling—clenching down around him, my body already knowing exactly how this ends.

And when he slams in deep and licks at my neck, voice gone dark and furious—

“You’re mine.”

It falls from my lips before I can stop it.

“ …Yours .”

His growl is victorious; and then, he snaps.

“That’s my girl.”

His pace turns punishing—no rhythm now, just need . The sharp slap of skin echoes through the living room, but all I can focus on is the filthy, slick drag of his cock inside me and the way my body keeps pulsing, still coming, still taking .

I sob out another moan, barely upright anymore, melting into the wall as his grip tightens. My scent-blocking patch is long gone, panties shredded on the floor, and I can feel the pressure building again; that deep, impossible fullness, that unmistakable stretch.

My eyes widen.

“Wes—”

“You know what’s coming,” he pants, his breath ragged and hot against my ear. “You feel it. Soaked and open for it. Ready to be knotted like the desperate little cunt you are.”

My whole body shudders in ecstacy at his words as he drops his forehead to the back of my neck, groaning low, the sound animalistic.

“Fuck, you smell so good like this,” he growls, inhaling deep. “No more blockers. Just you . Sweet and slick and mine .”

I can feel the base of his cock thickening, swelling at the root with every brutal thrust.

“No one else gets this,” he snaps. “Not Jace. Not Cam. You want to act like I’m the one who fucked it all up? Fine . But I’m the one who had you first. I’m the one your cunt was made for.”

I claw at the wall, body locking up around him.

“Wes—please—” I gasp, voice wrecked.

“ Say it. ”

“I—I need—”

His hand closes over my throat again. “Say. It.”

I break.

“I need your knot,” I groan. “ Now. ”

The noise he makes is fucking feral .

“Good girl.”

And then he slams in deep—

And stays there.

My eyes fly open, mouth falling into a soundless scream as I feel his knot expanding, catching inside me, locking .

“Fuck— fuck —” I pant, clawing at anything, everything. “It’s—”

“I know,” he snarls, body pressed flush against mine now, pinning me completely. “You take it so fucking well. So tight around me. Fucking made to be filled.”

And I am full. Beyond full, even. His cock throbs deep inside me, locked in place, and I swear I can feel every twitch, every pulse, every drop of heat spilling into me.

My body shakes, overwhelmed, overstimulated, and still—I want more. I always want more of him.

His hand slides under my belly, between my thighs, fingers working my clit again, forcing pleasure through the ache.

“I can feel you milking it,” he rasps. “So greedy. So fucking good for me when you stop pretending.”

Tears slip down my cheeks—helpless, wrecked tears—and I lean back into him, too wrung out to fight it anymore, and too far gone to lie to either of us.

“Mine,” he breathes again, softer now. “Even when you hate me.”

And I hate how much I love it.