Page 87 of Pack Me Up

I hand my marker to the worker and slump back in my chair, legs splayed, head thrown back. Saint is already moving, already closing the distance. His hand is on the back of my neck, pulling me up and out of the chair and guiding me through the makeshift corridor behind the merch table.

“Saint,” I say, voice nothing but a rasp.

He doesn’t answer. He just walks, big hand locked around the curve of my neck, pulse beating through his thumb like a war drum. I can taste the salt of my own skin, the electric heat of him baking off his suit.

He doesn’t stop until we’re in the hall, behind a maintenance door. The second the door closes, he slams me against it, both hands caging me in.

“You liked that,” he says, not a question. “You liked being claimed by your alpha.”

I nod, words gone. I don’t trust my own tongue.

He’s so close I can see the flecks of silver in his ice blue irises, the exact way his jaw clenches when he’s holding back. His hands slide up, pinning my wrists above my head. He drops his mouth to my neck, teeth dragging over the bond mark, and the sound that rips out of my throat is nothing I’ve ever heard before.

“Say it,” he commands.

“I liked it,” I whisper. “I like you claiming me, and I love you like this.”

He kisses me, hard, biting down on my lower lip until I gasp. The taste of blood is sweet, almost desperate.

“You’remine,” he says, every word dripping with possession.

I try to say yes, but it comes out as a whine. There’s a war in my veins. I need him inside me, now, before I melt into the floor.

Saint’s mouth is on my neck, my jaw, my ear. “Let’s see if you can keep quiet,” he growls. “Or if you want everyone in the building to know who you belong to.”

I shiver, the heat between my legs white-hot and unbearable.

He cups my breasts, thumbs rough over my nipples, then drags his mouth down to taste me, tongue circling, teeth scraping just enough to make me whimper.

He pulls back, stares into my face, eyes so pale they could freeze the world. “You’re mine,” he says, and it’s a threat, a promise, and a prayer.

“Yours,” I whisper, throat raw.

He kisses me, hard, stealing all the air from my lungs. I bite his lip, taste copper, and he shoves me harder against the door, thigh wedged between mine, grinding up into the heat of me. I claw at his shirt, desperate to touch bare skin, and he rips it off like it’s tissue, buttons skittering across the floor.

“Say it,” he repeats, voice ragged.

“I’m yours,” I say, and this time it’s not a whisper. “Alpha.”

He laughs, rough and low, and then his hands are everywhere, up my ribs, under my shirt, fingers splaying over bare skin. He’s so much bigger than me, the difference in size making me dizzy.

He grinds into me, cock hard under the black wool of his slacks. I reach down, fumbling at his belt, but he catches my hand, pinning it over my head again.

“Patience,” he says, voice so deep it shakes me.

I whine, helpless. He smirks and kisses the corner of my mouth, then moves to my throat, sucking a bruise just below the bond mark.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, “dripping for me already.”

I can’t deny it. I’m soaking wet, thighs slick, every inch of me wired for him.

He lets go of my wrist, and I use both hands to claw at his shoulders, needing him closer. He catches my mouth with his tongue sliding deep, and I melt. His hand finds my breast, squeezing hard enough to leave a mark, and I yelp against his mouth.

Saint chuckles, the sound vibrating through my chest. “You want everyone to hear, huh?”

I shake my head, but he knows it’s a lie.

He slides a hand down, under my skirt, between my legs. He finds my clit in one stroke, and I nearly lose it.