Page 16 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

Cyrus clears his throat and sets the drinks down on the coffee table, snatching the CD away from her. “This old thing?” He looks at it as if it’s the first time he’s seen it. As if Alana hadn’t just grabbed it from his own personal collection. “Oh, pretty sure this was left here by that artist friend I told you about. He’s still got some of his crap around here,” he mumbles.

Judging by the way he refrains from looking at her, Alana doubts the statement is true. “Oh, yeah?” She snags the CD back and flips it over, where something is scribbled in marker. A bit worse for wear and clearly from a different decade, but eligible nonetheless. “Then why’s your name on it?”

Cyrus blinks, and Alana laughs as the man does mental gymnastics to figure out an alibi that makes sense. When he can’t come up with one, his shoulders sag in defeat, and he flashes a glare that doesn’t hold as much weight as he probably thinks it does.

“I’ll have you know some of these are very catchy,” he grumbles.

He looks an awful lot like a soaked cat, and another snort of laughter escapes Alana. The visual of Cyrus listening to some poppy, auto-tuned, teenage songs in the shower when he thinks no one is looking is, admittedly, a very funny one. A deep, cherry color blooms across Cyrus’ face, dusting over his sun-kissed freckles.

It looks like he wants to defend himself, to make some kind of excuse, but the words fail him. Instead, he gives another halfhearted glare and takes the CD again. “Forgive me for bein’ a man of culture,” he says, moving to put it back in its rightful place.

“Whose culture? Teenage white girls?” Alana giggles.

He scoffs. Before she knows it, he positions himself in front of her. The gold in his eyes shines through more prominently than it had seconds ago, and Alana’s pulse stutters. She isn’t deterred, though. She stays firm in her stance, arms crossed, and neck craned upwards to keep eye contact.

“I don’t take too kindly to being made fun of in my own home, you know.” Cyrus mirrors her posture, crossing his arms over his wide chest.

Alana’s attention lowers, catching the flex of his muscles from the movement. The sleeves of his shirt stretch so tightly around him that they look like they’re about to rip. Her breath hitches, and her eyes narrow at the cocky, wolfish look he gives when he spots her staring.

She doesn’t know why she does it. To taunt him, perhaps. Or to take the focus away from her own embarrassment. But before she can think better of it, she nabs Cyrus’ hat and sets it on hers. It’s far too big, and sinks down further than it ought to, forcing her to tilt the tip up so she can keep glaring at him properly. “What, a girl can’t have an opinion on a man’s terrible music choices?” Her heart thunders in her chest, and her knees go weak when Cyrus eyes her up and down.

“Well, yes, ma’am, you can. But I’ll tell you what you can’t do, and that’s just go and take a man’s hat like that. You’re familiar with the rules, aren’t you?”

The question is asked so genuinely that it throws Alana off guard. She blinks, and Cyrus’ smile curves.

“Wear the hat,” he starts, plucking his hat away and placing it back in its rightful place. “Ride the cowboy, sweetheart. Guess it’s a good thing we came prepared for that, now isn’t it?” There’s a flirtatious lilt to his voice, and Alana’s face goes scarlet. She has no chance to respond, not before Cyrus scoops her up and over his shoulder like she weighs nothing at all. He smacks her ass as he carries her down the hall, paying no mind to her yells of protest.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ALANA

Cyrus!” Alana squeals between panicked laughter. “I’m sorry! Wait—!”

The shifter doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even flinch. Before she knows it, she’s haphazardly thrown onto a mattress that’s big enough to have its own gravitational pull. It dips under her weight, and she scrambles to sit up, propping herself on her elbows. Cyrus’ room is just like everything else in this ridiculous apartment—fucking huge. Dark walls, moody lighting, and there’s another set of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto a balcony. She doesn’t get a chance to admire the landscape this time, though. Cyrus is crawling over her, his massive frame swallowing hers.

“Quiet all of a sudden, are we?” Cyrus murmurs. “Don’t go gettin’ all shy on me now, Miss Alana.”

His knees slot between hers, leaving her no choice but to let her legs open to accommodate him. Anything Alana wants to say evaporates off her tongue. The gravity of his presence above her, mingled with the deep, intense scent of his cologne, makes her mouth go dry. It’s humiliating, the effect this man has on her. But what’s even more humiliating is the fact that Cyrus knows it. It’s in the purr vibrating at the back of his throat, the way he finds the side of her neck, kissing her skin like he already knows exactly where she wants him without needing to say a single word.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he tells her, breath ghosting across her ear. “Remember, you get to tell me to stop at any time. Got it?” When Alana nods, Cyrus nips at her earlobe in warning. “Use your words now, pretty girl.”

Fuck. The low vibration of his voice adds to the embers crowding beneath her skin. “Yes, I got it,” Alana answers, breathless. Then, she swallows. “Just, um, give me a sec?”

Cyrus lifts a brow and sits up to let Alana scramble out from underneath him. She pads to the bathroom and shuts the door behind her. Then, she finally breathes. Round cheeks puff with a heavy exhale, while her hands smooth through her hair. She begins pacing the tile floor.

Shit. Holy shit. She’s really doing this. She is about to get fucked.

As reality sets in, so does mild panic.

This…this is a good thing. This is exactly what she wanted. And yet, it doesn’t stop the urge to abandon ship. Alana forces herself to take a good, hard look at herself in the mirror to analyze everything that she hadn’t thought to be nervous about before. She showered beforehand, that was enough, right? Could he smell her? Gods, could he smell her down there? In a rush, Alana snags a few wet wipes from the counter. She wipes down her underarms for good measure, and her bikini line, too. Wait, her bikini line. It was pretty much the only thing she’d shaved. She left everything else mostly natural, not wanting to endure a wax or razor burn. He’s a werewolf, for fucks sake. He can handle a little pubic hair, can’t he? It would be insanely hypocritical for that to be a problem.

But, fuck, what if she tastes weird? What was pussy even supposed to taste like? What if—No.

Alana smacks herself clear across the face. Just hard enough to steel her rattling nerves and quiet those loud, annoying voices. She’s fine. Her pussy is fine. Her well-trimmed bush is more than fine. She’ll let him reject her if that’s what he’s going to do. But there’s no point in doing it on his behalf, especially before they even got started. Mama didn’t raise no bitch.

“Alana? You doin’ alright?”

The genuine concern in Cyrus’ voice is enough to cut through Alana’s mini spiral. She jolts, and her face swivels towards the door.