Page 83 of Knotted By my Pack

My fingers find his jaw, trace the sharp line of it. He leans into my touch, kisses my palm, then catches my mouth with his. Hot. Confident.

His weight sinks into me, pinning me just right. My thighs fall open on instinct. I moan into his mouth.

He swallows the sound, his tongue sliding against mine, slow and deep. His hand drags under the hem of the oversized shirt I stole last night—his shirt—and palms my breast.

His thumb brushes across my nipple, and I arch into the touch with a gasp.

His mouth trails down, claiming the hollow of my throat, then lower. He sucks just beneath my collarbone, hard enough to bruise.

“You’re sensitive here,” he murmurs.

“Are you a boob guy?” I pant.

His smirk is wicked. “I’m a you guy.”

His knee nudges between mine, spreading my legs farther, and I grind up against him. His thigh flexes beneath me—just enough friction to drive me crazy, not enough to finish me.

“Off,” he growls, tugging at the shirt. I lift my arms, and he strips it away. He pauses to look at me, bare in the early morning light. His gaze darkens, sharpens.

“Beautiful,” he rasps, like it hurts to say. Like it’s more than just a word.

Then his lips are on me again, kissing down the swell of my breast, licking over the peak before sucking it into his mouth.

His other hand tweaks and tugs at the other nipple, rougher now, and I arch into him helplessly.

His tongue traces a line down my stomach. I tremble beneath him, already aching, already wet. He slides my panties down my hips, dragging his knuckles over my thighs like he’s savoring every inch.

When I’m fully bare, he sits back, just looking.

“Take yours off too,” I whisper.

He doesn’t move for a second. Just stares like he’s fighting with himself. Then he reaches behind his neck and pulls his T-shirt over his head in one swift motion.

His chest is all carved muscle and shadows, the trail of hair leading down to the waistband of his boxers. I bite my lip.

He slides those off next, freeing the thick length of him. My mouth dries.

“Cora,” he says, voice hoarse as he strokes himself. “Sit on my face.”

Not a request. A command. Possessive. Raw.

My breath catches, a wave of slick heat crashing between my thighs.

I crawl toward him, slowly, heart hammering. I swing one leg over him and straddle his chest, then shift forward until I’m poised over his mouth.

His hands grip my hips—tight, claiming.

“Come here, Omega,” he growls.

He pulls me down, and his mouth isright there. Tongue flat and firm as it licks through me. I cry out, grabbing the headboard to stay upright.

His tongue moves with purpose, dragging over my clit, then dipping lower. He groans, the sound vibrating into me, and my whole body shudders.

His grip tightens. He locks me down like heneedsthis. Like he’s starving, and I’m the only thing that can feed him.

“Elias—” My voice is already shaking. “That’s—God?—”

He moans again, tongue circling, lips sucking gently then harder until I can barely think. Every flick, every stroke is precision and hunger.