Page 1 of Knotted By my Pack
PROLOGUE
JULIAN
My cock is still in her mouth when my phone buzzes. “Fuck,” I mutter, tilting my head back against my office chair.
The rhythm of her lips doesn’t falter. She’s good at this. Too good. Warm, wet, eager—just the way I like. One of her hands grips the base of me, the other braced on my thigh for leverage as she works me over. I tighten my grip in her silky honey-blonde hair, slowing her down, savoring the slick slide of her lips.
Buzz.
I glance at my phone.Father.
The tension in my jaw locks.
Brielle watches through her thick mascara-coated lashes, a satisfied little smirk playing at the edges of her mouth. I should’ve known better than to let my assistant kneel between my legs in the middle of a workday. But I’ve never cared much for rules.
Brielle is everything I should avoid. Her body’s built like temptation itself: curves that don’t quit, long legs wrapped in stockings, and a blouse unbuttoned just enough to grab my attention.
“Get up,” I tell her, voice rough.
She slowly drags her tongue along the underside of my shaft one last time before pulling back. She wipes the corner of her mouth with a manicured thumb, rose-gold polish gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
“You’re no fun, boss,” she purrs.
I tuck myself back into my pants and adjust my tie. “You weren’t saying that when you were gagging on my cock five seconds ago.”
She grins. “But you never let me finish.”
I groan. “You finish when I decide you do.”
Buzz.
I exhale sharply, pressing “accept.” “Yes.”
“Boardroom. Now.”
That’s it. No greeting. No explanation. Just my father’s voice, clipped and impatient, before the line goes dead.
Brielle hums, grabbing her purse from my desk. “Guess that’s my cue.” She tosses her hair over one shoulder, all casual. “By the way, thanks for the PTO. I checked out Driftwood Cove this weekend.”
I barely glance at her. “Yeah?”
She pouts. “Not even gonna ask me if I had fun?”
“I don’t care if you had fun.”
“Yeah, I know,” she says with a bitter laugh.
She always whines about me ignoring her, then comes crawling back when she wants to be useful.She is just an Omega. It’s in her nature.
She leans against my desk. “Cute town. My boyfriend wanted a weekend getaway, so we booked this place—Sleepy Shore Motel. Total dump, by the way. No WiFi, no decent plumbing. I almost died.”
I don’t give a shit about her boyfriend or her vacation. I should be annoyed she’s even telling me this, but the words “Driftwood Cove” stick.
I grab my phone and head for the door.
The boardroom is all glass and steel, perched high above the city skyline. The air is thick with money and expectations.
My father, Alec Vance, sits at the head of the table, the picture of controlled power. Late fifties, silver-streaked hair, the kind of man who built an empire from nothing and expects his sons to bleed for it.
