Page 77 of Mane Brew

“The paperwork—” I gesture vaguely at the desk, the scattered forms, the incident reports we’re definitely destroying.

“Can wait.” He kisses down my throat, his tongue tracing patterns that make my knees weak. “Everything can wait.”

“That’s very un-Rhodes-like of you.”

“You’re a bad influence.” But he’s smiling against my skin—actually smiling—and something pulls tight low in my belly at the sight.

“I know.” I pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes are dark. Hungry. More unguarded than I’ve ever seen them. “Take me somewhere that isn’t your filing room.”

“My quarters are⁠—”

“I know where your quarters are.”

His smile turns wicked. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I’ve been paying attention for four years. I just didn’t want to admit what I was looking at.”

He kisses me again—deep and thorough—his tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes me dizzy. His hands grip my hips, pulling me flush against him, and I feel exactly how much he wants this. Wants me.

“Come with me.”

We barely make it through his front door.

The Alpha’s Den is exactly as organized as I expected—stone floors, neat furniture, file cabinets visible through an open doorway. But I don’t get much chance to observe the décor because Rhodes has me pressed against the wall the moment the door closes, his mouth hot on my throat, his hands mapping my body with the same attention to detail he brings to everything.

“Upstairs.” I manage the word between gasps.

“Upstairs.” He agrees against my collarbone, then sucks hard enough to leave a mark.

We stumble up the staircase in a tangle of limbs and discarded clothing. My shirt lands somewhere around the fifth step. His follows on the seventh. I run my hands over his chest—golden-brown skin stretched over muscle earned through years of shifting and fighting and holding lines—and he groans into my mouth.

By the time we reach the upper hallway, I’m down to my bra and he’s working on the clasp with fingers that aren’t quite steady.

“The mechanism is unfamiliar.” The clasp gives way, and his exhale sounds like surrender. “God, Zeph.”

He cups my breasts like they’re precious, his thumbs brushing over my nipples until they peak against his palms. I arch into his touch, my head falling back against the wall.

“Rhodes—”

“I have imagined this.” His mouth replaces his thumb, hot and wet, tongue circling. “Approximately eight hundred and forty-seven times.”

“That’s very specific.” The words come out breathy, barely coherent.

“I kept records.”

I laugh—can’t help it—and the sound dissolves into a moan as he sucks harder, his teeth grazing sensitive flesh. My hands fist in his hair, holding him to me while my magic flares so bright the hallway lamp flickers.

“Bedroom,” I gasp. “Now. Or I’m taking you against this wall.”

His growl vibrates against my skin. “Tempting.”

But he lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carries me the last few steps to his room.

The bedroom is simpler than I expected—a large bed with crisp white sheets, a nightstand with a lamp, minimal decoration. But in the corner, on a shelf that looks hastily cleared: a case of Humble Pie Ale.

“You kept it.”

“I kept it.” He lays me on the bed, his body covering mine with perfect, devastating weight. “I couldn’t—I tried to throw it away. Multiple times.”