Page 112 of The Rust in Her Hair

"Lyra," he whispers my name as he leans into me, pressing me backwards. He follows me down until I'm flat on my back beneath him.

Mack is so much bigger than me like this, all heavy muscle and heat, and I should feel trapped. I don't. I feel weirdly safe. Like nothing will ever hurt me again.

Mack kisses me until the rest of the world falls away, and all I can feel is his mouth on mine and the slow slide of his tongue. He works one big hand under my shirt, the calloused heat of it settling against my ribs, climbing higher until it closes over my breast. My back arches as he sweeps his thumb across my nipple, then rolls it between his fingers, and I gasp into his mouth.

"That's it," he breathes against my lips. "Let me hear you."

I do it again when he pinches, making a helpless little sound, and I feel him grin into the kiss.

Before I know it, my hips lift on their own, rolling up against him, chasing the friction. Mack meets my moves, grinding down on me. And that's when I feel the hard, thick line of him pressed against my thigh. He's so big.

Those sexy photos pop into my head, remembering the shocking girth of him. And, now, feeling the real thing, heavy and straining toward me, sends a fresh flood of slick between my legs.

I want to see it and taste it.

I need to lick every powerful inch.

"Please," I gasp, breaking the kiss. "I want you in my mouth. I want to taste you."

Mack goes still above me. A rough sound rolls out of his chest, low and wrecked.

"Fuck me." He pulls back to look down at me, his green eyes gone dark. "You can't say things like that."

"I mean it." I hold his gaze. "I want to."

That does it.

Mack pushes himself up off me and rises to his feet. I stay on the couch, propped up on my elbows, watching the alpha strip down. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his gym shorts and boxers, shoves both of them down. He slowly straightens back up, showing me every bare inch of his body, and every thought in my head vanishes all at once.

He's enormous.

Bigger than Nico, which I didn't think was possible. Thick enough that my fingers probably wouldn't come close to meeting around him. The whole shaft is flushed dark and leaking at the tip as it stands hard against his stomach.

I stare at him, my mouth watering, as a spike of nerves cuts through the want. There's no way that's going to fit in any part of my body.

But I’m willing to try…

Mack watches me drink in his size, then a slow, filthy smile spreads across his face.

"On your knees, princess," he growls softly. "Show me those manners your mama paid so much for."

Heat floods through me at his order, and I move.

I slide off the couch and sink down onto my knees on the floor in front of him. The second I'm settled, he reaches down and fists the hem of my shirt, dragging it up and over my head in one pull. It's gone before I can think about it, tossed somewhere behind me, leaving me in nothing but a pair of baggy shorts.

Mack looks down at me like he wants to devour me whole. "Look at you," he breathes, his eyes falling to my breasts. "You are the prettiest damn thing I've ever seen."

The praise pours through me, warm and syrupy, and my whole body responds to it. My nipples tighten, my thighs press together against the fresh rush of slick, and I have to fight the urge to preen under his gaze.

I've spent my whole life being told I wasn’t pretty enough, or sweet enough, or useful enough. But now, I have a house full of men who look at me like I'm the best thing they’ve ever laid eyes on, and I want to chase that feeling until I drown in it.

Lifting up on my knees, I wrap one hand around the base of Mack’s fat cock, and I can't even close my fingers. He's hot and heavy and pulsing against my palm, and I lean in and drag my tongue up the length of him, slow, from root to tip, the way Owen showed me.

Mack hisses out a breath, and I do it again, tracing the thick vein along the underside.

I take my time, lapping at every inch, before I close my lips over the head and suck, tasting the salt of him on my tongue. His hand comes down and finds my breast, thumb and finger closing over my nipple, pinching, and the sound I make around him is muffled and desperate.

Above me, Mack’s head tips back and a low sound rolls out of him. "Lyra," he says my name, his voice strained. "Yes. Please don't stop."