DEVOTION, DUSTED IN FLOUR
~WENDOLYN~
My head falls back against the worn wooden table, a gasp tearing from my throat as ecstasy courses through me, wave after unrelenting wave.
Fingers dig into the edge, knuckles whitening, anchoring me against the storm Silas unleashes with his tongue. Legs splayed wide, trembling, the remnants of flour dust my skin like faint snowfall, mingled with sticky trails of whipped cream he laps away with deliberate hunger.
He's buried between my thighs, devouring me as if I'm the rarest delicacy, and I've shattered beneath him at least three times already, each climax building on the last, leaving me boneless, breathless, alive in ways I never imagined possible.
Pleasure this intense, this sustained—it's foreign territory.
Gregory's pack never ventured here; their touches were perfunctory, mechanical releases for their urges alone, leaving me hollow, yearning for more than fleeting friction. I'd resort to hidden vibrators during those feverish spells nearing heat, cranking up suppressants to dull the agonizing emptiness, the biological scream for true connection.
But this?
Silas's mouth works me to the precipice again, tongue flicking with surgical precision, lips sealing around my clit in a rhythm that drags me under. It's a revelation, a disguised benediction after the stolen interlude with Bear in that cramped changing stall, where I'd ridden him to oblivion.
Now, Silas feasts, and my body sings, every nerve alight, no toys required, no suppressants to numb the blaze.
He draws back at last, his final licks savoring the last tremors, leaving me panting, exposed. The dress clings uselessly, rumpled and hiked up, doing zilch to conceal the lush swell of my hips, the dip of my waist, or the insistent peaks of my nipples straining against the thin fabric, begging for visibility, for touch.
Silas rises from his kneel on the bench where our baking chaos unfolded, his light blue eyes dark with satisfaction, a sheen of my essence glistening on his chin.
He mutters, voice gravelly, "We probably don't have much time," and my gaze drops to his hands fumbling with his zipper, the rigid outline in his jeans broadcasting his arousal, thick and unyielding, a promise of what's next.
"Did you ride Bear in the changing room?" he asks, casual as if discussing weather, but the heat in his tone betrays deeper curiosity.
I blush, stumbling over words in a flustered stutter.
"How—how do you even know we did anything?"
He chuckles, low and knowing, unzipping with unhurried grace.
"I'm observant, Wendy. I remember details, and I'm far from oblivious, unlike Aidric." His cock springs free, generous and veined, the thick shaft making my eyes widen in appreciation. "I'm fairly certain Calder suspects, too, but we all recognize he's content seeing you receive the devotion you merit. He won't interfere. Though he'd relish irking Aidric's temper, no doubt."
The admission hangs between us, charged with the pack's intricate web of affections and rivalries. Silas's length bobs, imposing, and I can't tear my gaze away, heat pooling anew in my core despite the lingering aftershocks.
"You're... substantial," I breathe, voice laced with awe.
He smirks, a flash of white teeth against his sandy hair falling into those piercing eyes.
"Beckett surpasses me in girth, which is why I deduced your encounter stopped short of full penetration…otherwise, your stride would betray the tenderness."
My cheeks flame hotter, but defiance sparks.
"What, planning to ensure I waddle from this shop, courtesy of your impressive endowment?"
That smirk deepens into something predatory as he closes the gap, hands seizing my thighs, yanking me to the table's edge.
His tip nudges my slick folds, inches from entry, and my pupils dilate, breath hitching at his bold assurance, so unlike the tentative hesitations I've known. "If enthusiasm overtakes me, perhaps," he murmurs, dragging his length along my seam, coating himself in my wetness, the friction eliciting a tremble and an impatient moan from my lips. "But guarantees elude me in such fervor."
He teases relentlessly, sliding up and down, gathering my arousal until I'm quivering, hips arching in silent plea. Laughter rumbles from him, deep and teasing.
"Craving it, Wendy?"
"Fuck yes," I gasp, the admission raw. "I can't recall such fervent intimacy with any pack."
He leans forward, lips brushing mine in a whisper of contact.
