47. Ivy #2
I shove him backward and he lets me, sprawling back onto the plaid blanket, the fleece throw sliding off my shoulders into the grass.
"Damn, wildcat," he breathes. His hands settle on my thighs as I straddle his lap. "You just gonna take what you want, huh?"
"Yeah." I plant my palms flat on his chest and feel the thud of his heart hammering beneath his flannel. "Problem?"
"Fuck no."
I let my hands roam. Down the planes of his chest, over the slope where hard muscle gives way to the soft padding at his middle. I like it on Thane, and I like it on Whiskey, too, who's the definitive Thicc King. A slow grin curves my mouth at the purr already rumbling under my palms.
"You're like a big dog," I tell him, scratching my nails lightly through the fabric over his ribs. "If I scratch your belly are you gonna kick your leg?"
"Try it and find out," he dares.
So I do. I drag my nails in slow circles over his stomach, petting him, scritching, and he makes the most ridiculous contented noise I've ever heard, his whole chest rumbling with it, one massive thigh twitching beneath me.
I lose it.
I laugh so hard I nearly tip off him and have to catch myself on his chest, and he's grinning up at me, completely unbothered, basking in the attention like the giant golden retriever he is.
"You kicked," I accuse, wiping at my eyes. "You actually kicked your leg."
"Did not. That was a, uh, muscle spasm. Combat injury. Real serious."
"Uh-huh." I lean down and press a kiss to the center of his chest, then settle back to sitting on his stomach, my hands resting flat on him. "My poor wounded soldier."
He reaches up and tucks a strand of my dyed hair behind my ear, gentle as anything despite the size of his hands. "You gonna be a nurse and make me feel better?"
"You're corny as fuck," I tell him.
"Yeah, but you love it."
The worst part is he's right.
I do love it.
I love him, this big ridiculous golden retriever of an alpha who planned an entire date around letting me scream and break things and then fed me the best grilled cheese of my life under the stars.
I adjust my position in his lap to get more comfortable, settling against him, and his hands tighten around my thighs.
"Ivy," he breathes, honey eyes going dark. "You keep movin' like that and we're gonna have a problem."
I roll my hips experimentally and feel exactly what kind of problem he means pressing against my ass. He's already half-hard beneath me, his breath catching under my hands.
"Doesn't feel like a problem to me," I murmur, leaning over him to press my lips to the stubble along his jaw.
His hands tighten on my hips. "Thought you were sore."
"I am." I kiss the corner of his mouth. "But there's more than one way to have fun."
He groans, low and rough, and the sound vibrates through his chest and into mine. "You're gonna fuckin' kill me, wildcat."
"Maybe." I rock against him again, slower this time, finding the angle where the seam of my jeans presses against my clit just right. "But what a way to go."
Whiskey's head falls back against the blanket, exposing his throat. I lean down and drag my teeth along the thick column, nipping at his pulse point, and he makes a noise that's somewhere between a growl and a whining groan.
"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, Ivy."
I love that I can do this to him. That this massive alpha who could bench press the whole damn moon turns into a desperate mess under my hands, even when I'm feeling frumpy in his oversized flannel with my hair sticking up everywhere.
I settle more firmly in his lap and start moving more deliberately, grinding down against the hard ridge of him through our jeans.
His hands slide up under my flannel, calloused palms skating over my ribs, my waist, the curve of my spine. He doesn't try to take control, doesn't flip me beneath him or demand more.
"Whiskey," I breathe against his throat. "The fireworks."
"Huh?" He sounds completely dazed.
"You promised me fireworks."
"Oh." He blinks, brain clearly rebooting. "Oh, shit. Yeah. Okay. Yeah."
He fumbles blindly beside us until his hand closes on a Roman candle. I watch him dig a lighter out of his pocket with his free hand while I continue rocking against him, grinding slow circles that make his eyes flutter shut.
"You're evil," he accuses breathlessly.
"Learned from the best."
He lights the fuse and holds the Roman candle up toward the sky just as I grind down particularly hard. The first burst of color explodes above us, brilliant red against the black, and Whiskey moans.
"Oh, fuck…"
I don't stop moving. I watch the fireworks bloom overhead, one after another, crimson and gold and electric blue, as I ride Whiskey's lap. The fleece throw has fallen away somewhere, leaving me exposed to the cool night air, but I'm burning up from the inside and he's a living furnace.
"Ivy." His voice has gone ragged. He's trying to put the throw back on my shoulders even now, his eyes rolling back into his head. "Ivy, I'm—"
"I know," I pant. I feel him straining beneath me, his hips hitching up to meet mine despite his attempts at control. "Me too. More… more fireworks, Whiskey."
"Demanding," he huffs, but he's grinning, already reaching for another one. This one shoots up into the sky with a whistling shriek before exploding into a shower of silver sparks.
Something cold bumps my knee and I glance down. There's a pint of cookie dough shoved into the side of the paper bag from the cooler, sweating through it.
"You brought ice cream," I say, grabbing it.
"'Course I did." He's grabbing another firecracker, one shaped like a dragon with a rocket stuffed in its jaws. "Date night."
It's soft and basically a smoothie by now, and I don't have a spoon, so I do the obvious thing. I dip two fingers in and scoop, bringing my fingers to my lips as he fires off the dragon.