Page 18 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

“Did you know,” Cyrus’ voice rumbles against the shell of her ear, a low timbre. “That the clit is the only organ whose sole function is for pleasure? Her only goal is to make you cum.

Ain’t that something?”

Fingers curl upwards and massage forward in a way that hits just right, while his thumb connects just above her swollen, neglected clit. He strokes her in well-timed circles, while working her from the inside. It’s blinding, the pleasure that dances across her eyes as they roll to the back of her skull. Alana’s knuckles pale with how hard she digs into the sheets, searching for something to tether herself to. Every cell in her body wants nothing more than to draw this out for as long as possible. Minutes, hours, weeks, even. But this man knows his way around a pussy, and her stamina has seen better days. He applies more pressure to her clit, whispering his praises, and Alana shatters with a shaky cry of the shifter’s name. Her vision streaks white as he rides her through wave after wave, her body constricting around him for several passing seconds before relaxing.

Cyrus chuckles from above her. The sound is distant —like she’s miles below water. Another soft whine escapes Alana, and when she’s fully spent, he slowly inches his fingers out. They fall into a comfortable, relaxing kind of quiet that’s easy to swim in as the energy from her body fizzles out. Alana lies with limbs sprawled and chest heaving, and when she finds the strength to lift her head, Cyrus is waiting.

Eyes like raw Jasper find hers and he makes a show of licking his fingers clean of her mess, tongue greedily lapping across every drop she’d left behind down to his wrist.

“Delicious.”

Alana’s face swelters so hot that steam might start emitting from her pores. “You’re, um, good at that.” She offers a short-winded laugh and slowly sits up.

“Happy to be of service,” he grins.

Alana swears she sees his chest puff up with a divine sense of accomplishment. She takes in the sight in front of her now that she’s able to get a better look. A few buttons had loosened on his shirt, offering a better peek into the expanse of his chest. Fine, dark hair decorates his pecs, and the sight stirs another wave of excitement through Alana’s abdomen.

“So,” she begins. “Do I, um, still get to see you?” She reaches over and runs her fingers through Cyrus’ hair, enjoying how he leans into it. “In your werewolf form, I mean.”

“You can.” He gives a reassuring smile. “I, uh, just have to warn you that some folks think it’s what they want, but when they see me, they get intimidated. So, if you change your mind, it’s no hard feelings.” He sounds hesitant, his gaze shifting as he steps off the bed and removes something from his wrist. As Alana looks closer, she notices it’s a watch. Leather strap, with golden details. “It’s part of the glamour,” he explains. “It’s kind of a myth that we can only change under the spell of a full moon. Us shifters can change whenever we want, but having these on makes sure we only ever stay human. Even if our emotions get the best of us.”

Alana’s eyes light with a curious spark. It makes sense, especially for monster types who find it difficult to stay human during intense emotional situations. Ruts, heats. Part of her— the intrusive and too-nosy-for-her-own-good part—wants to ask how Cyrus handles those situations. But then he starts to undress, and her brain fails to retain a single coherent thought.

He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing an intricate balance of fat and musculature. He’s got strong arms, and soft pecs that Alana wants nothing more than to lay her cheek against. As her gaze travels downwards, familiar black boxers fit snugly across his hips, and Alana takes her time drinking in the view. At least, until he steps out of them. When they get discarded to the side, Alana’s jaw falls. Cyrus flashes a grin, and she averts her eyes as if suddenly impeaching his privacy.

As if he didn’t just have his fingers inside her.

Cyrus barks a laugh, his smile as wide as the stance he takes to tease her, one hand on his hip and the other stroking his erection to full hardness. “C’mon, now, Miss Alana. It ain’t a rattlesnake. It’s not gonna bite ya.”

“Oh my gods. Shut up?” Alana resists the urge to throw something at him and tell him to put his clothes back on. Maybe it’s not too late to back out. Before she can retreat, a flash of light draws her attention back to him. Only there’s no longer a man in her presence, but a massive wall of tawny brown fur, a muzzle with pointed canines on full display, and clawed hands. When he stands upright, Cyrus is a few feet shy of the ceiling, needing to dip his head to dodge the light fixtures.

Alana’s heartbeat drums in rapid succession as Cyrus crawls back onto the bed. “Wow,” she blurts, reaching a shaky hand to rest on top of his head. “You’re beautiful.” The compliment leaves before she can think of filtering herself. She means it, though. He’s stunning. She’s never seen anyone or anything like him.

Cyrus chuffs at the contact, and his tail thumps behind him. “Uh, thanks.” He chuckles, bashful. Like no one has ever complimented him in that way before.

Alana’s hand travels down the pillowy softness of his fur and takes in the intricate musculature beneath. It’s that same strong, sturdy build as his human form, although it feels even easier to sink into him like this. She almost loses herself in her exploration, but the sight of his dick poking out from its sheath brings her attention back to the task at hand. As expected, he’s, well, massive. Alana swallows at the weight of it; mauve red hangs low and heavy, already dripping with his excitement.

“Well damn, Cyrus…”

The werewolf doesn’t hide the humor in his voice when he speaks. “We can take it slow. Whatever you need.”

It’s sweet, but Alana can’t help but look at him like he’s grown two heads.

“I don’t think going slow is going to help me take the equivalent of a forearm,” she says, and covers her face in her hands as she falls flat onto her back again. Okay, forearm may have been an exaggeration, but he is big. Like, spend the night in the emergency room for a busted pelvis, big. Now she can’t tell if the wetness between her thighs is from arousal or if her pussy is weeping in despair.

The bed dips with Cyrus’ weight as he shifts closer and settles between her legs. When she uncovers her eyes, he’s smirking at her, nosing her knees apart with his snout. “I think you underestimate your body, Miss Alana. I have a feeling you might surprise yourself with what it can take.”

With a gentle lick up her thigh, Alana shudders. Cyrus puts his nose into the crotch of her soaked panties and takes in her scent with a satisfied purr that she can feel in her bones. Then, the flat of his tongue is licking a stripe from her clothed perineum to her clit. Alana gasps, her hands flying to the sheets. She stares at him through thick lashes, and Cyrus stares back, waiting. When he hears no signs of protest, his massive hands lift her up by the ass to give him better leverage as he proceeds to eat her through her underwear. The rough, rigid texture of his tongue, combined with the molten heat of his breath ghosting her clit is surreal. Not a single toy or twitch of her own hand could ever compare.

“Shit,” Alana groans, tossing her head back against the pillows. Freshly painted nails nearly shred holes through the thin sheets.

“Cyrus, yes, fuck, yes.”

Her body twists and rolls against his tongue, the sensation

far too much yet not enough all at the same time. She can’t make up her mind on whether to run from it or chase it. Not that it matters, because Cyrus makes the decision for her. There’s no wriggling out from his grip or pushing his face away. Those strong, powerful hands pin her in place, and his monstrous tongue laps with sublime pressure against the entirety of her sex.

“You taste heaven-sent,” he growls. It’s muffled against her, spoken like a secret kept only between them. “Fuck, Alana.”