“More than anything,” he growls. Now, his palms cup my ass, encouraging me.

Bracing my hands on either side of his head on the armrest, I straddle his shoulders, my knees sinking into the cushions. Warner slides lower, until his breath tickles the curls at the center of me.

“Fuck, Zoey.” His lips brush my sensitive skin as he curses, and I clutch at the smooth leather of the couch to keep myself steady. “You’re perfect.”

My command of the situation slips. Like I stepped on the slick stones leading to dark water and the river snatches at my feet.

“I’m not.”

Warner growls again, this time low and menacing. Then, I feel a long stroke against my folds. Hot and wet. His tongue tortures me, giving back the pleasure I plied him with only a moment ago.

“You’re perfect for me.”

Before I can respond, Warner’s lips find my clit. After that, I’m too busy moaning and drowning in ecstasy to overthink his declaration. All my muscles tighten, my body wanting to curl in on itself, looking for protection from the intense sensation of a werewolf’s mouth on my pussy.

At some point, my hands move from the couch to his head, my fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair. I must look wanton, clutching him to me as my hips rock against his mouth.

But Warner doesn’t tap out, begging for a break. Instead, he kneads my ass and presses me closer. He fucks me with his tongue in between bouts of worshipping my clit.

The noises that come out of my throat rival those of an animal. The response is a hum deep in his throat that sounds happy. Not a big surprise that a werewolf might like driving a woman wild.

“Warner,” I gasp, “I’m close.”

His assault becomes more frenzied, and when the brush of his teeth against my clit comes, I give in to the glorious pulsing of my orgasm. The tension in my muscles increases by tenfold, then snaps loose like a rubber band pulled past its limits. Some form of a whispered scream forces itself out of my throat.

Warner laps at me, clearly enjoying the taste of my wetness. I can barely keep upright and appreciate it when he slides my hips down over his chin and down his chest, until I can collapse on top of him without worrying about suffocating him with my thighs.

We both pant, and with the movement of his chest, I feel the brush of his hard length against my ass.

Which means I still have work to do. And, hell, am I looking forward to it.

“Do you have condoms?” My question is muffled because I’ve started nuzzling the hair on his chest. Who knew I’d like my man with some fuzz?

“I think so. In my bedside table.”

“Sounds like we need to relocate.”