Page 93 of Pack Frenzy
“I love the sounds you make,” he murmurs, teeth scraping that sensitive spot just below my ear.
Need floods through me, dizzying, pooling low in my belly. I’m shaking with want, with the fear of wanting this much, with the overwhelming relief that he wants me too.
He lifts me easily, hands gripping my thighs as he carries me to the couch. The lightning flashes outside, throwing light against the walls, painting us in silver and shadow. His body covers mine when he lays me down—a shield and a spark all at once. The weight of him feels right, solid and real, grounding me even as everything else spins.
Every movement becomes a conversation. His hand slides under my shirt, pushing it higher. My fingers clutch his hair, tugging until he groans. The quiet, desperate sound I make when he presses his hips against mine. He murmurs my name against my skin like a promise, like something sacred.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers.
I don’t argue. I pull him closer and make him prove it.
Then his mouth is on my breast through the thin fabric of my bra and thought dissolves into sensation.
The storm outside breaks fully, rain hammering the roof as if the sky can’t bear to keep quiet either. And the rhythm of itmerges with ours—slow, then urgent, then slow again, building toward something that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
His mouth finds mine again, then my shoulder, then lower. When his teeth scrape just above my collarbone, a moan catches between us, half-formed and shameless. He marks me there—not rough or possessive, justreal. Just his.
“Cassian—”
“I know, sweetheart…Jess.” He catches himself, and I smile—hell, he could call meBad Surfer Girland I’d still answer.
My hands shake as I work his shirt open, needing skin against skin, needingmore. When I finally touch him—chest, ribs, the taut plane of his stomach—he makes a sound that goes straight through me.
We shed clothes between kisses, clumsy and laughing and desperate. His jeans. My shorts. The tangle of fabric that falls away until there’s nothing between us but want and the thundering rain and our harsh breathing.
“I need you to be sure,” he says. “Because if we do this, I won’t be able to keep it casual.”
“Good,” I whisper. “Neither will I.” I reach up, cupping his face, running my thumb across his lower lip. “I wantyou, Cassian. I feel like I’ve wanted you for so long I forgot what it felt like not to want you.”
Something breaks in his expression—relief and hunger and something that looks dangerous that I’m afraid to name.
He kisses me, tasting me slowly, then deeper.
His hands roam, mapping me like he’s learning a language—thumbs tracing my ribs, palms sliding up to cradle my breasts, fingers teasing the edge of lace. Each touch coaxes a new sound from me, and he murmurs praise between every breath.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“Maybe that’s your fault.”
His laugh rumbles low against my throat. “Then I’m doing something right.”
He trails kisses down my stomach, each one a promise that makes my body arch toward him, seeking. When he looks up—eyes dark, lips parted—I see what’s coming, and I stop breathing just to memorize it.
His breath is hot on my thighs. He kisses and nips his way up my inner thigh and I’m trembling with anticipation and need. When his tongue strokes against my sex, I nearly come off the couch.
Each flick of his tongue sends shockwaves through me, building a tension that’s almost unbearable.
I fist my hands in his hair, not sure if I’m pushing him away or pulling him closer. He growls against me, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure crashing over me. He’s relentless, his hands gripping my hips, holding me steady as he devours me.
He doesn’t let up.
Christ, is this what I’ve been missing? All those fumbling college hookups, the guy who finished in three minutes and asked if I came—thisis what sex is supposed to feel like?
My body is slick with sweat, trembling, and some distant part of my brain is already mourning every minute I wasted not doing this with Cassian.
When his fingers slide inside, his mouth climbs higher—teasing, sucking, nipping—until I arch into him and forget my own name.
Cassian’s tongue delves deeper, drawing out another wave of pleasure. I can’t think, can’t breathe, as His fingers slide inside me, curling, finding that spot that makes my vision white out. His mouth moves to my breast, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make me arch off the couch.
