Ivy #2
Before I even realize what's happening, his mouth captures mine.
One hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, fingers splayed wide, pulling me flush against his chest. The other finds the nape of my neck, tangling into my hair, angling my head so he can deepen the kiss without breaking contact for even a second.
I sink into him.
His tongue sweeps against my lower lip and I open for him, my fingers fisting the lapels of the suit. He tastes like blackberry wine and root beer. My back arches against his hand and the steering wheel digs into my ass, but I don't care, not even a little.
On the screen, a zombie crashes through a barn door. Someone in a nearby car screams. The horn section of the low-budget soundtrack blares through the tinny speaker hooked on our window.
I giggle into Thane's mouth and he grins against my lips.
"Ivy," he breathes, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. His chest heaves. His pupils are so dilated there's barely a ring of brown left. "I…"
I kiss him again.
He groans into it, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his ribs and into mine. His hand slides from the small of my back to my hip, thumb pressing into the curve of bone above the hem of my dress, and the restraint he's been exercising all evening frays a little more.
He'd never fully lose control, not with me.
Not unless I asked him to. But the edges of his composure are blurring, and I feel it in the way his grip shifts from guiding to gripping, his mouth moving harder against mine.
A breath stutters out of him when I roll my hips forward on instinct and press against him.
His hand catches my hip and holds me still. "Wait," he rasps.
"Why?"
"Because if you do that again, I'm going to forget we're in a fucking parking lot."
"Good. We're far enough away from everyone else, and you have tinted windows. They can't see us."
"Ivy…"
I roll my hips again and his resolve crumbles like wet paper.
"Fuck," he groans.
His hand slides from my hip to the curve of my ass, fingers digging in, pulling me tighter against the hard length of him through his suit pants.
My hands brace against his thick torso, fingers sinking into the soft warmth of him, and the contrast drives me insane.
The new layer of plushness over the rigid muscle beneath, the way his whole body tightens and rolls up into me when I press down.
He's so fucking big.
Heavy and dense and solid beneath me in a way that makes my inner omega go fucking crazy, neon signs practically lighting up in my core that scream alpha, strong, mine.
His jaw clenches tighter when I shove my knee between his thighs and grind again, slowly and deliberately.
His head tips back against the headrest. The cords of his neck stand out as the zombie movie's soundtrack swells, which is hilarious because the percussion matches what I'm doing to him, and I'd laugh if my breath weren't already coming in short, ragged pulls.
My hands find his chest. The charcoal suit jacket is warm from his body heat, and I smooth my hands down the fabric, letting my inner omega enjoy the luxury of the rich fabric for a moment. But not for long.
I'm on a fucking mission.
I slide my palms beneath the lapels and push the jacket open, spreading it wide across his shoulders. Beneath, his white dress shirt is buttoned to the third one down. A triangle of tanned skin and the hollow of his throat, the shadow of his collarbone.
I start making short work of his buttons.
His eyes drop to my fingers, half-shut as he pants, his ridiculously broad, solid chest straining at the buttons enough that it takes me extra time to get those open.
I could just tear them. But something tells me this shirt was expensive. So I resist, somehow, biting my lower lip to hold back the feral creature inside me that's screaming to just rip the fucking thing open and get to the rest of what I want.
His shirt falls open finally.
Oh, fuck yes.
Thane has always been solid, built like a wall inside and out. But the body beneath my hands isn't as lean as it was, and definitely not the hard-cut version I've seen in old game footage and press photos.
He's thick. Like Clark fucking Kent with longer hair and dadbod.
His muscled pecs strain with every ragged breath, and lower, his stomach is soft over the dense hardness.
His obliques have filled out, too, his sides wider, his torso filling the entire open shirt.
His warm skin gives under my palms when I press my hands in until I hit the unyielding wall of muscle beneath.
He laughs nervously and tries to suck in.
Fuck, he is so fucking cute.
"Don't you dare," I purr, dragging my nails up from his stomach to his chest, slow enough to feel every ridge and every place where hard becomes soft and soft becomes hard again. His breath hitches. "I love your body. Every inch."
I flash a grin at the clueless alpha so he gets the double meaning there.
The breath caught in his throat escapes him. "Ivy—"
I lean forward and press my open mouth against his collarbone, tasting salt and the faint ghost of his cologne. His hand comes up and cups the back of my head, fingers sinking into my hair with a low, uncertain purr of his own.
I roll my hips again.
The friction sends a bolt of heat straight up my spine and his hand tightens in my hair. His other hand grips the curve of my hip hard enough to leave fingerprints on my skin beneath the dress.
Good.
I want the marks.
I want all the marks.
Speaking of which…
I set a rhythm. Slow, grinding circles that drag the seam of my underwear against the hard length of him through his suit pants. Thank fuck I'm wearing a dress. This feels good enough my thighs are already shaking, but it isn't enough to tip either of us over the edge.
His hips buck up involuntarily and his hand flies to my waist to stop himself, jaw clenching, the cable-like tendons in his forearms standing out.
"Sorry," he grits out.
"Don't apologize." I push his shirt open wider, baring more of him, my fingers tracing the hard swell of his shoulder beneath the jacket. "Don't ever apologize for wanting me."
His eyes darken to near-black.
I pull the last button free and dive down, following the newly exposed bronzed skin with my mouth, kissing down the center of his chest, feeling the hammer of his heart against my lips. When I drag my tongue along the ridge of his left pectoral, his whole body jerks.
"Ivy—fuuuuck—"
I grind down harder.
His head slams back against the headrest and the groan that tears out of him is the kind of sound the pack alpha buries deep beneath his completely fucking false composure.
He doesn't have to be composed with me.
Not tonight.
"I have a question for you," I whisper, nipping at his flesh.
He gives a low warning growl, gripping the back of my head to angle my mouth away so I can't bite him again, and I give him a grin in return that's probably completely fucking maniacal.
"What is it?" he whispers back, panting.
My fingers find the edge of my dress strap. The one on my left side. The thin green fabric resting against the raised, pearlescent scar where another, less wanted mark used to be, before I burned it away.
I slide the strap off my shoulder.
Thane's gaze drops to it. His hand leaves my jaw and hovers, not quite touching, fingers suspended an inch above the scarred skin.
"Thane… I want you to be first."
The pack leader's eyes meet mine again, confused now.
"I want you to be the first to mark me."