I stroke her. Two fingers through wet heat. I find a spot inside her that makes her whole body shake. She tears up handfuls of moss, her spine arching off the ground.
“God, Garrett!”
My name in her mouth makes me pause. I stare down at her. She’s so damn perfect.
“Stop teasing and fuck me.”
“Ask me nicely.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “Fuck. You.”
“That’s the idea. Ask.”
She grabs my wrist and tries to force my hand harder against her. I resist. Hold my fingers still, barely touching, while her hips roll and seek. She snarls with frustration.
“I will kill you—”
“Ask.”
“Please.” It rips out of her. “Please, just—”
I flip her. She goes to her stomach, and I’m on her before she can react, my chest against her back, my mouth at her ear.
“Since you asked.”
I reach between us. Find myself, thick and aching, and notch against her entrance. She’s so wet the head slides through without resistance, nudging into heat that shorts my brain out.
“Tell me you want it,” I say against her ear.
“I want it.” No hesitation. No pride left. “Put it in me.”
I push in.
The heat of her. The grip. She’s tight — so tight my jaw locks against the groan that wants out. Her body opens for me inch by inch, her walls squeezing my shaft with a wet pressure that I feel all the way up my spine.
She moans into the moss. Long. Low. She lets me hear it. The sound goes through me like a current.
I bottom out. Hold there. Not to savor it. Because if I move right now, I’ll come. She feels that good.
“Move,” she pants, muffled by the moss.
I move.
I pull back slow and slam in hard. Her body rocks forward, and she braces her arms and shoves back to meet me. The collision is obscene — wet, loud, the sound of our bodies in the quiet trees. I do it again. Again. The rhythm is deep and punishing, and every thrust punches a grunt out of her that I feel in my cock.
My hand finds her hair. Wraps. Pulls her head back, arching her spine. The new angle lets me go deeper, and she cries out, sharp.
“Right there,” she gasps. “Right there, don’t stop—”
I don’t stop. I drive into that spot with everything I’ve got, and her cries get higher. Her walls are fluttering around me — squeeze, release, squeeze — and I can feel her climbing.
“You going to come for me?”
“Shut up and make me.”
I slam in harder. Faster. My grip in her hair, my other hand digging into her hip. I can feel the wolf in both of us — my nails sharp against her skin, her claws tearing the ground, the growl in my chest a continuous rumble, the noises from her throat more animal than human.
She comes.