Chapter 42 – PLAGUE
Chapter
Forty-Two
PLAGUE
The moment Whiskey's mouth crashes into mine, every carefully constructed wall I've spent years building crumbles like wet tissue paper.
His lips are softer than they have any right to be.
Is he wearing that stupid overpriced lip balm he impulse-bought at a gas station because the packaging had a werewolf on it?
That's such a Whiskey thing to do that I almost laugh into his mouth, but then his tongue slides against mine and my brain short-circuits completely.
Fuck.
I should pull back. Should maintain the distance that's kept me sane for years. Should do literally anything except grab the front of his red plaid flannel and drag him closer.
But that's exactly what I do.
My fingers twist in the worn cotton of his flannel—of course he's wearing clothes that make him look like a damn lumberjack—and I use it to anchor him against me. He makes this sound, half growl and half moan, that vibrates through my chest and straight to my cock.
"Shit," he breathes against my mouth when we break apart for air. "You kiss like you're trying to win something."
"Everything's a competition with you," I snap back, but my voice comes out rougher than intended. Betraying exactly how affected I am.
"Yeah?" His honey-brown eyes are almost black now, pupils blown wide. "Then let's see who breaks first."
I open my mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove his juvenile challenges only for him to kiss me again like he does everything else.
With zero finesse and maximum enthusiasm.
There's nothing tentative about it this time. His rough hands frame my face, thumbs brushing along my jaw as he angles my head exactly where he wants it. I can’t even manage to be pissed off at the way he’s manhandling me.
Instead, with my lungs full of Ivy’s spiking honeysuckle scent mixing with Whiskey’s cinnamon as she watches us from her nest, I can feel the first warning signs of a sympathy rut building at the base of my spine.
That restless, clawing need that usually takes days to build hitting me all at once.
Whiskey’s hands slide down to my shoulders, pushing down. "Loveseat," he rumbles against my mouth.
"Good call," I point out, suddenly nervous even though all the blood in my body has rushed south. "We shouldn't disturb her nest."
"Fuck yeah, that's sacred territory," he agrees, walking me backward toward the loveseat. "Besides, if we're doing this, we're doing it right."
"There's a right way?" I croak, but then the backs of my knees hit the loveseat and I'm falling backward with Whiskey following me down.
The loveseat creaks ominously under us. Definitely not built for two alphas, especially when one of them is built like a grizzly bear. Whiskey settles over me awkwardly, his thick thighs barely fitting in the limited space, and grins down at me like he's won something.
"Look at you," he says, voice dropping to that low rumble that absolutely does not make my skin prickle with want. I swallow hard. "The great Plague, flat on his back. Never thought I'd see the day."
"Cherish it while it lasts," I tell him, trying to sound bored despite the fact that I'm harder than I've been in years. "This is a one-time necessity, nothing more."
"Sure it is." He leans down, his breath hot against my ear. "That's why you're practically vibrating under me."
I am not vibrating. I'm maintaining perfect stillness like the disciplined alpha I am. The fact that my hands have somehow found their way to his waist, fingers digging into the solid, bearlike bulk of him through his flannel, is purely coincidental.
"Are you going to run your mouth all night, or are you going to actually do something useful?" I ask hoarsely.
What am I saying? This is Whiskey, my irritating, boundary-pushing packmate who I can barely tolerate. Yet here I am, practically begging for his touch because the watching omega's heat has me so wound up I can hardly think straight.
And if I don't get release, I'm going to explode.
His laugh rumbles through both of us. "Bossy. I like it."
Then he's kissing down my throat, and I have to bite back an embarrassing sound because apparently my neck is far more sensitive than I realized. His teeth scrape against my pulse point—not hard enough to mark, we're not complete animals—and my hips jerk up involuntarily.
"Fuck," I hiss, mortified.
"That's the idea," Whiskey says against my skin, and I can feel his smile. The smug bastard. His hands are at the hem of my turtleneck now, tugging insistently. "This needs to go."
"Absolutely not." I grab his wrists, stopping him. The thought of being that exposed, that vulnerable, makes my skin crawl.
He pulls back to look at me, and there's something in his expression that's almost... soft. Understanding. It's deeply unsettling. I much prefer when he doesn't give a shit.
"Okay," he says simply. "Pants though?"
I consider this. My dick is currently trying to burst through the zipper, so perhaps some compromise is necessary. "Fine."
He grins like I've given him a damn gift, and his big hands move to my belt with surprising dexterity. Within seconds, he's got it undone, along with the button and zipper of my slacks. The relief when he frees my cock is immediate but intense in a different way.
"Fuck me," Whiskey breathes, staring down at me with wide eyes. "You've been hiding all this under those pretentious designer clothes?"
"They're not pretentious," I argue, even as my ears get hot again.
"They're criminal is what they are." His hand wraps around me, and my entire body goes rigid as he looks at me like I'm a five-course meal and he's been starving for weeks. "Look at you. Fucking perfect."
"Stop staring and do something," I snap, because if he keeps looking at me like that I might actually snap.
"Bossy," he says again, but he's already moving down my body, pressing kisses to my chest through the fabric of my turtleneck. "I really do like that about you."
"You don't like anything about me," I remind him. "We barely tolerate each other."
He pauses, looking up at me through his lashes. "You really believe that?"
"It's an observable fact."
"Your observable facts are bullshit," he says, and then his mouth is on my cock and I stop thinking entirely.
Holy fuck.
I've received oral sex before. I'm not a monk.
But this is... different. And not just because he's a guy, and an alpha.
Whiskey attacks my cock like it's personally offended him, all wet heat and suction and absolutely no technique whatsoever.
It should be terrible. Instead, my hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the chestnut strands as my hips buck up without my permission.
"Did you learn to give head in a tornado?" I choke out.
He pulls off with an obscene pop. "You complaining?"
"No," I growl through my teeth. "I'm… providing constructive criticism."
"Here's some constructive criticism for you," he says, and then swallows me down to the edge of my knot.
My vision whites out. There's no other way to describe it. One moment I'm lying on a hotel loveseat maintaining some semblance of dignity, and the next I'm arching off the cushions making sounds I regret every time a new one flies out of my mouth.
Whiskey hums around me, the vibration traveling up my spine like lightning. His hands grip my thighs, holding me steady as he works me over with single-minded determination.
I know Ivy is watching us. I can feel her eyes on him, on me, her scent growing thicker in the air. Part of me wants to be embarrassed, but a larger part—the part currently getting its brain sucked out through its dick—doesn't care about anything except the wet heat of Whiskey's mouth.
"I'm going to—" I try to warn him, but he just doubles down, sucking harder.
The orgasm slams into me. My entire body locks up, muscles tensing as I snarl Whiskey's name. I might be cursing in three different languages. Maybe four. I have no fucking idea because my higher brain functions have completely abandoned ship.
When I finally come back to myself, Whiskey's wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking insufferably pleased with himself.
"So," he says, voice rough. "How's that for no technique?"
For once, I don't have a witty comeback. I don't have a cutting and clever remark that puts him back in his place. Instead, all I can do is stare at the ceiling and try to remember how breathing works.
"Cat got your tongue?" He's definitely laughing at me now.
"Shut up and give me a minute," I manage to rasp.
"Take your time. I like looking at you all fucked out."
That gets me moving. I prop myself up on my elbows, glowering at him from under my hair that's somehow come loose from its ponytail and fallen into my face. "I am not 'fucked out,' whatever that means."
"Uh huh." He's still kneeling awkwardly between my legs in the limited space of the loveseat, his own arousal obvious through his jeans. He's huge everywhere. "That's why you were moaning my name."
I was not moaning his name. I was... vocalizing. There's a difference.
"Pretty sure the entire floor heard you," Whiskey continues, that insufferable grin stretching wider. "Should we check if hotel security is on their way?"
"Fuck off." I struggle to sit up properly, trying to regain some semblance of dignity while my softening cock is still exposed. My hands shake slightly as I reach for my pants, but Whiskey catches my wrist.
"Where do you think you're going?" His grip is firm but not painful. "We're not done here."
My pulse kicks up again despite having just come harder than I have in years. "What?"
"Fair's fair. You got yours. Now it's my turn." He releases my wrist and straightens up, hands moving to his jeans. My mouth goes dry as he pops the button, the zipper following with agonizing slowness. "Unless you're too delicate after that?" He raises an eyebrow, challenge clear in his tone.
"I'm not delicate," I snap, even as my spent cock gives a valiant twitch of interest.