Page 63 of Stuck with my Pack
I should move. Say something. Do anything but lean into him like I crave every inch of his touch. Like I’m craving to have my whole body pressed against his, naked, sweaty, melting with pleasure.
My body betrays me, and he notices as I lean a fraction of an inch into him. Of course, he notices.
His half smile fades, replaced by hungry, smoldering need. “Sophie,” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to get control of myself. I start to turn away. “I should?—”
But before I can finish, he’s behind me, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand trails up my arm, catching my wrist as I reach for another book.
“Let me,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and fire.
I freeze as his chest presses against my back, his grip firm but not forceful, just enough to hold me in place. My breath stutters, and when I lean my head back in surrender and look at him, the intensity in his gaze steals whatever excuse I was about to make.
Brodie’s fingers slowly slide from my wrist down to my hand, and I feel the calloused roughness of his palm against my skin. “Let me help you. I can feel you, the scent of you, and it’s fucking driving me crazy.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he silences me the only way he can—his lips pressing against mine, a fierce and deliberate glide. His tongue demands that I submit. I want nothing more than to have this beautiful man do anything he wants to me as long as he doesn’t stop kissing me.
A soft, helpless sound escapes me as I melt into him. His kiss iseverything—possessive, demanding. My body responds instinctively, pressing closer, my fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, pulling at what I can reach of him like I need him to breathe, my wrists still held in his large palms.
Brodie’s free hand drifts down, settling at my waist before sliding lower into the waistband of my leggings. He glides one finger along my slit rhythmically before sinking into my heat. My knees weaken, heat licking up my spine, and he lifts me slightly, a growl of pure need coming from his chest.
He pulls his hand out and to his mouth, looking me deep in the eyes as he tastes me on his fingers. The sight is so erotic I slick instantly, wholly undone by the heat in his eyes.
He releases my wrists and turns me in his arms. His grip is rough as he drives his hands to my ass and lifts me effortlessly, pressing me against his hardness. His lips claim mine in abruising, frenzied kiss. He guides me back against the nearest table.
“Brodie,” I whisper, breaking the kiss, my voice shaking with need.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his pupils blown wide with hunger. “Tell me to stop, and I will,” he says, his voice a low growl.
I don’t want him to stop.
I can’tthinkbeyond the press of his body, the way his hands skim up my thighs, lifting my hoodie to hook his hands in the waistband of my leggings and, achingly slow, pulls them off, taking my underwear with them.
His hands and lips make a slow, reverent path back up my body. Every nerve in my body is on fire, desperate for more, for him.
“Let me take care of you, Sophie,” he murmurs, his voice filled with a kind of devotion that steals the breath from my lungs.
A shuddering sigh leaves my lips, my resolve crumbling under the weight of my desire. “Yes,” I whisper.
That’s all it takes.
Brodie kneels before me, his broad hands bracketing my thighs, spreading me open with a reverence that sends a full-body shiver through me. His grip is firm, steadying me as if he knows I’ll crumble beneath the weight of my own need.
The room feels impossibly hot, my Omega instincts clawing to the surface, desperate for his touch, his scent, his claim.
I barely have time to process the sight of him on his knees before his lips follow, pressing to the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, his stubble scraping lightly, sending a fresh wave of slick between my legs.
His tongue traces a slow, deliberate path, and my head tilts back, a moan slipping past my lips before I can stop it.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against me, his voice dark and rich with praise. His breath ghosts over my heat, and my hips shift toward him instinctively, my body betraying any last shred of restraint.
My fingers grip the table’s edge behind me, knuckles white as he takes his first taste. Laving my clit with slow teasing licks, he takes my clit in his mouth and sucks. The sensation sends me over the edge.
And he meets my climax with a deep chuckle, “Such a good girl, coming for your Alpha. So pretty.”
He takes his time, dragging me higher, pulling every sound from my lips like he’s savoring each one. Every lap of his tongue, every slow stroke of his fingers on my folds, is deliberate—controlled and all-consuming.
He plays my body like he was made for me. He grounds me with whispered praises, his voice threading through my haze like silk.
