Page 44 of Knotted By my Pack

My fingers are slick, still wet from her. I bring them to my nose, dragging in her scent like it’ll anchor me.

I groan low, tasting her on my tongue as I lick them clean slowly, like I’m savoring dessert. My cock throbs in my jeans, hard and unforgiving.

I adjust myself through the denim, cursing under my breath.

I should’ve been gentle. Should’ve said the right thing, given her space. But catching the scent of another man on her—Julian, of all people—sent something snapping in me.

Feral doesn’t even begin to cover it.

She still let me touch her, though. She could’ve stopped me. She didn’t.

When I walk out of the back room, she’s at the front counter, smiling like she didn’t just have my fingers buried inside her, like she hadn’t gasped my name.

There’s a customer in front of her. She’s all politeness and sweetness, her cheeks still faintly pink, her curls bouncing as she nods.

But she doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t glance. Not once. Her voice stays calm, measured, like I hadn’t just ruined her composure.

I stand there for a second, watching her pretend.

She’s good at it. But I’m better.

This isn’t over.

She lied about Julian. Said he kissed her cheek. That was bullshit. Her scent was layered, his all over her skin like a cheap cologne trying to mask something real. She let him close.

Close enough for it to cling. And maybe she likes him. But her thighs parting for me? Her head falling back when I licked her neck?

That wasn’t fake. That was real. She almost came for me. From just my fingers and a few filthy words.

I grin as I step outside, not caring that the air is still wet with rain. My boots splash through shallow puddles as I make my way to the truck. My body hums with the aftertaste of her.

I smell like her. My skin carries the ghost of her touch; my beard smells faintly of her hair. It’s fucking addictive.

I slide into the seat, roll my window halfway down, and lean back for a second. My palms rest on the steering wheel. I’m not going back in there, not today.

If I stay, I’ll do something reckless. Something that lands me behind bars. Julian won’t be far, and I’m not in the mood to be civilized.

I drive. Out of town. Past the bend where the trees grow thicker and the roads narrow. My cabin isn’t far, nestled in the woods where no one comes looking unless they’re invited.

The place is quiet when I get there, still damp from last night’s storm. I pull up, kill the engine, and just sit for a minute. But my jeans are tight, cock pressed hard and aching from being denied what it wants.

She didn’t say no. She said Julian didn’t fuck her. Her words. Not mine. And I believe her. Mostly.

I slam the door, boots heavy on the wet gravel as I make my way inside. The moment I’m through the door, I toss the keys on the counter, tug at my belt like it’s choking me.

It takes effort to get the damn thing off, fingers fumbling with the buckle while my other hand slides into my pants, wrapping around the heat that’s been taunting me since I walked into her bakery.

I don’t even make it to the bed. The back of the couch will do.

My hand moves fast, rough, my mind playing her back like a film I’ve seen a hundred times. Her thighs wrapped around my waist.

Her voice catching when I sucked on her earlobe. The look in her eyes when I asked her if she fucked him.

She didn’t answer right away, but I saw it. Saw the way her body reacted to me. Saw the guilt twist with want. She couldn’t lie to me when she was that close. I’d already claimed something inside her.

And the sounds she made? Fuck. They’re still echoing in my ears.

I stroke harder, faster, my grip punishing. My thumb brushes the tip, slick and leaking, and it only spurs me on.