Page 66 of Who Let The Wolves Out?

“And yet here you are,” he says, his voice lazy, his fingers slipping inside me, curling just right. My back arches, a soft moan escaping my lips, and he hums, pleased with himself.

“Shut up,” I whisper, my nails digging into his shoulder.

“Make me,” he says, breathing heavy against me, his fingers moving faster now, pushing me closer to the edge.

I don’t have the words to retort, my body tensing, pleasure building and coiling tighter until it breaks, washing over me in waves. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, my fingers tightening in his hair as I ride it out.

When it’s over, I collapse back onto the couch, my chest rising and falling as he pulls his hand away, his smirk widening.

“Told you,” he says, his voice smug.

“Told me what?” I say, my voice hazy, my limbs heavy.

“That you love it.”

I stick out my tongue, but I’m too spent to argue. He shifts, pulling me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me. His heartbeat is steady under my ear, his breathing slowing as he presses a kiss to the top of my head.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost tender.

I close my eyes, the warmth of him surrounding me, and let myself drift.

CHAPTER 23

ALICE

Jason’s hanging upside down from the rafters, grunting as he tries to pin a string of fairy lights to a rafter beam with nothing but stubbornness and the wrong size hammer.

“You sure you don’t wanna wait for a ladder?” I call from below, holding a box of mason jars and trying not to sound too worried.

He grins—upside down, which is annoyingly cute. “Where’s the fun in that?”

I shake my head and gently set the box down by the window, brushing sawdust off the windowsill. Our new shared cabin is still half-finished, with paint samples on the wall and a mysterious leftover cauldron in the closet that neither of us wants to claim.

But it’sours.

I peek up again. “If you fall, I’m not sewing your ear back on.”

“I heal fast,” he mutters, then yelps as the light string slides off the nail. “Usually.”

I can’t help it—I laugh.

This is what nesting with a werewolf looks like.

Hammers. Bark-scented body spray. And fairy lights tangled in clawed hands.

And somehow, I feel completely at ease.

Jason’s shirtless.

Again.

Because apparently, painting a cabin is a shirt-optional activity if you’re a werewolf.

And I’m tryingreally hardnot to stare, even though he’s currently rolling a mint green stripe across the wall like it owes him money.

“Careful,” I say, laughing. “You’re one swipe away from painting the window.”

“Details,” he mutters, but slows his roll slightly. “Besides, this color slaps.”

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