Page 34 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Both of these massive, powerful alphas, holding back because they'd rather suffer than pressure me.

And they're going to need me to be really fucking clear, or we're never going to get anywhere.

"I want both of you," I whisper, my hand traveling down Thane's thick waist and brushing against the base of his cock, where his knot is already partially swollen. "Right now."

Chapter 7

Wraith

Ivy's hands are on both of us.

At the same time.

And my brain isn't working right.

The water keeps running over my exposed face, and for once I can't bring myself to give a shit. Not in the dark, with her delicate hand wrapping around my cock with confident pressure, not when she's looking up at where I am in the darkness with those ocean eyes.

I can see her perfectly, light or not, because I'm fucking feral. But she can't see me. I know she can't, and I catch myself checking anyway, making sure her pupils are in my general direction and not meeting my eyes or landing on the horror of my bare face.

Thank fuck.

Thane's shallow breathing behind her tells me he's just as affected. His bulk shifts in the tight space, and I feel his presence like a wall of heat in the shower with us.

"Ivy," Thane's voice is rough, strained. "Are you sure⁠—"

"You don't have to check," she interrupts. "Wraith is mine. And you're his brother. A package deal." I can hear the gentle teasing grin in her voice. "And besides, I like you."

Mine.

Even after…

My hand moves to cover hers where she's stroking me, stilling the movement. She goes tense, her lashes fluttering up toward me, maybe thinking I'm refusing, but I guide her hand closer to my mouth instead.

Lick her palm.

Taste soap and skin.

Watch her carefully, to see if she's thinking about what it looks like when my tongue curls out of my monster jaws.

To see if it bothers her.

Praying it doesn't.

"Wraith," she breathes, biting her lip.

Her scent spikes.

She doesn't mind that.

Her hand in mine feels so small wrapped around my scarred palm, like she's anchoring herself to me.

Or maybe I'm anchoring myself to her.

Hard to tell anymore where one ends and the other begins.

She guides my hand lower, pressing my palm flat against her stomach. The muscle there beneath her soft skin contracts under my touch, her breath hitching as my fingers trail down toward⁠—

"Wait," she says, turning away from me.