Page 101 of Knotted By my Pack

“What are you doing?” she asks, breath hitching.

I dip my head and catch the top edge of her sweater between my teeth, tugging it down just enough to expose the soft swell of her cleavage. I lick across the curve, slow and greedy.

“What is it with you and my boobs?” she murmurs, smiling.

“Obsessed,” I mutter against her skin.

I sink to my knees before she can say another word. The jeans are snug, molded to her body, and the second I peel them down,the flash of hot pink lace underneath punches the air from my lungs.

They slide down her thighs and pool around her knees. I grip her hips, tugging her toward me until she’s forced onto her toes, thighs braced on either side of my head.

She’s already wet. I can see it. Smell it. And the sight of her swollen and glistening, right here in my cabin with the scent of two other men still lingering on her skin, makes something primal in me snap.

My tongue drags along the seam of her, slow and deep. She makes a noise that’s almost a sob, hand slapping against the wall to steady herself.

I wrap my arms around her thighs, holding her still as I focus on the tight bundle of nerves that has her keening. Her hips jerk, and I do it again, circling, teasing, until she gasps my name like it hurts.

“Take them out,” I growl between licks. “Let me see.”

She pulls at her bra, baring her breasts for me as she arches slightly. My eyes stay locked on them as I dive back in.

Her nipples tighten in the cool air, and when her head drops back with a low cry, I double down.

She’s moaning, thighs trembling around my shoulders as I devour her. I eat like I’m starving, chasing every twitch, every gasp, tasting every part of her.

Her pussy is perfect. Swollen, slick, pink, and flushed. I can feel her building, muscles clenching with every pass of my tongue.

She grabs a handful of my hair and bucks against me, and I let her. Let her ride it, grinding into my mouth, until she shatters. Her cries echo through the space, sharp and wild.

I don’t stop until she goes limp, until her hand slips from my hair and her legs start to slide down my shoulders.

I ease her to the floor, kissing the inside of her thigh as she pants for air. Her fingers drift to my cheek, her body flushed and shining. Her scent is everywhere now. On my skin. In my mouth, coating my tongue.

And fuck, I’m not even close to done.

Her fingers slide under my clothes and wrap tighter around me, tugging with purpose, the glide of her palm slick from what she’s already drawn out of me.

I’m buried in her, two fingers deep and curling slowly, savoring every twitch of her body as her thighs tense around my wrist.

The floor is hard beneath my knees, but I barely register it. There’s nothing but her. Her scent. Her skin. The way she gasps when I find just the right rhythm, matching each pump of her hand with a thrust of my fingers.

Her breath stutters, and she whispers something that makes my cock jump in her grip. “Let me see,” she says, dragging my boxers down the rest of the way.

Her eyes lock on mine for a second—hungry, playful—then drop to my cock, thick and flushed and already leaking for her. She strokes me slowly at first, watching how my chest rises with each pass of her hand.

Then she picks up the pace, twisting her wrist the way she knows drives me wild.

I thrust into her grip and slide my fingers deeper, then crook them until she gasps, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

We’re tangled on the hardwood just inside the door, half-dressed and flushed, her sweater askew, her jeans and panties bunched around one ankle, my clothes somewhere behind me.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s perfect.

She whimpers, clenching around my fingers as I thumb her clit, and I groan, thick ropes spilling into her hand as she keeps pumping me through it.

Her body jerks, shuddering around me, and she clutches my shoulder like she’s anchoring herself. Her release hits hard, sudden, like it’s been waiting just beneath the surface.