Page 20 of Taken By the Pack

I’m on my knees, tasting her like she’s the last thing I’ll ever get to eat. Her thighs tremble, her breaths coming out in these broken little gasps that make my dick ache even in my dream.

Her voice is breathy, desperate. “Jake. Oh, God, Jake.”

I wake up, rock-hard and grinning like an idiot.

I stare at the ceiling for a second, the remnants of the dream still clinging to me like a fucking tease. Then I reach down, because there’s no way I’m starting my day like this.

“Fuck, Grace,” I mutter as my hand moves. The dream replays in my head on a loop—her taste, her sounds, the way her body arched into me.

It doesn’t take long before I’m coming with her name on my lips, biting back the groan so my neighbors don’t hear.

Afterward, I clean up, still smiling like a damn fool.

The shower’s quick, the water hot enough to shake off sleep. I throw on my running shorts, a hoodie, and sneakers before heading to the kitchen.

Tea’s the only thing I’ve got the patience for this early. Coffee makes me jittery, and I’ve already got enough energy buzzing through me.

My favorite part of the morning is next—my run. Or, more accurately, my excuse to see her.

Grace opens her flower shop every morning at the same time. Most days, she’s too distracted arranging flowers in the window or hauling in boxes from her car to notice me jogging by.

But I notice her. Every fucking time.

The way her hair catches the light, the soft concentration on her face. Even the way she wipes her hands on her apron. It’s ridiculous, honestly, how much space she takes up in my head.

Today, though, something’s off.

I round the corner, expecting to see her bending over a crate of roses or setting out those little chalkboard signs she loves. Instead, the “closed” sign is hanging in the window.

My stomach twists.

Grace is never not here.

Outside the shop, Mrs. Clarke is standing with her arms crossed, a frown pulling at her mouth.

“Morning, Mrs. Clarke,” I say, trying to sound casual.

She looks up and gives me a tight smile. “Morning, Jake. Have you seen Grace?”

I stop short. “No, why?”

Mrs. Clarke’s frown deepens. “Harold said he saw her car parked near the cliffs but she wasn’t in it. He thought something might’ve happened, so he sent me to check on her.”

The twisting in my stomach turns into a full-blown knot.

“The cliffs?” My voice comes out sharper than I meant for it to.

She nods. “Yes. It’s odd, isn’t it? Grace is always here by now.”

“When did your husband see her car?”

“Late last night,” she says, “and early this morning.”

“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath.

Mrs. Clarke gasps. “Language, young man.”

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I’ll check on her. Thanks for letting me know.”

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