Chapter 151 – Brat Games
Eli
The whole lodge smells like roasted meat and cedarwood polish, which is code for something important’s happening, and I’m expected to sit still for it.
Too bad I’ve never been much good at that.
Ronan’s beside me at the long table, sharp and quiet in a charcoal tunic that buttons all the way up to his throat. He looks delectably formidable. Darkness made flesh.
His hand rests on the bench between us, a single finger hooked just barely across my thigh, a leash in gesture more than grip. I could slip free any time I want.
Obviously, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to play.
I stretch with a theatrical sigh, letting my knee brush his under the table. Then I hook it over his, rubbing the inside of my calf along his leg as though I’m just shifting to get comfortable.
Ronan doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. But his finger curls harder into the meat of my thigh, and his jaw ticks once.
That’s one point to me. I can do better than that.
“I still don’t know why we have to do these monthly progress dinners,” I murmur, leaning just far enough to speak against his neck, knowing the effect my breath fanning over his ear will have. “They’re tedious.”
“They’re governance,” Ronan says without turning, the ticking picking up speed.
“They’re pretentious,” I correct, tapping his foot under the table. “Especially when you dress like you’re about to devour the court whole.”
“I might.” His voice is a low warning, but I can hear the amusement threaded under it.
I lean in again. “I’d much rather you only devour me. Or, if you ask very nicely, I could gobble you up. Every inch. All the way down my throat. But only if I’m properly motivated. You wouldn’t punish me for saying something like that, would you?”
That earns a sharper squeeze to my thigh, the pressure bruising. “Try me.”
Oh, I plan to.
The rest of the council and squad leads are deep in discussion about supply routes and recent border tensions, but I’m only half-listening. The air is thick with warmth and the low cadence of the pack chatting amongst themselves.
Which makes it the perfect time to cause trouble.
Ronan’s hand returns to his wine goblet, but I can feel his body tensing with control. I shift again, stretching my arms behind my head and then letting one fall lightly onto his shoulder. My fingers brush the back of his neck, casual and possessive. My thumb strokes slow circles under his collar and I watch in delight as Ronan’s pants start growing uncomfortably tight.
He growls low in his throat, audible only to me.
“Alpha,” I whisper, all innocence, “You seem tense. Maybe I can help?”
“Eli.”
“Yes?”
“You’re playing with fire.”
I drag my fingernail down the edge of his spine, just above his belt. “You like it when I play.”
His hand shoots out and clamps around my wrist like a man catching a knife mid-air. His voice is quiet, pleasant even, when he says, “Go on. Keep teasing. See what it earns you.”
I smirk and pull free, knowing exactly what it will earn me. Everything I want.
We get through most of the rest of the dinner without incident, but that bulge between his muscular thighs never goes away and the temptation is finally too much.
I rest my palm at the top of his leg, then slowly slide closer to the beckoning mound, covering it gently, before squeezing down once. Ronan jerks slightly and the swelling increases, making me feel rather light-headed myself.
As soon as the hall begins to clear, Ronan stands. “Get your ass to the cabin. Now.”
He’s lucky the tunic’s so long, or everyone would have known what a horny Alpha I have.
I drag my heels on purpose, slow as a brat on parade, stopping to chat to every wolf I know by name.
Ronan doesn’t wait for me. I find him already pacing in the bedroom, jaw tight, arms crossed like he’s restraining himself with great effort.
I close the door behind me and lean against it. “You’re not mad,” I say lightly. “You’re-”
“Strip.”
My cock twitches. I unbuckle slowly, sliding each layer off like a show.
“Trying to rile me in front of the whole council?” he growls, stalking closer.
“Maybe.” I toss my shirt aside. “Did it work?”
“Get on the bed.”
I crawl up onto the furs on hands and knees, spine arched, deliberately disobedient. Ronan climbs up behind me like a predator and yanks my hips back against him. He’s hard and ready to go. No more teasing necessary.
He slides two fingers between my cheeks, pressing in with no warning. I gasp and arch, but he keeps me there, pinned.
“You like testing me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, Alpha. I love it.”
He presses deeper, stretching me slow. I whimper as he curls his fingers and finds that spot that makes my eyes roll back. I clench and shudder.
“Then take the consequence.”
His hand smacks across my ass, sharp and claiming. He spanks me several more times, until I bury my face in the furs and groan as the sting builds. It’s not punishment. It’s play. It’s power. It’s the language only the two of us speak and it relaxes something that’s always tense unless my Alpha is fucking me senseless.
He doesn’t stop with just a few. The next blows land in a rhythm, following a tempo, like a drummer setting a warbeat against my skin. I squirm, breath catching, not because it hurts but because it doesn’t hurt enough. Not when his palm lands and then slides, dragging heat through the sting.
My cock presses hard against the bedding.
Then his fingers are back, slicked from me, pushing deeper, spreading me open with slow, deliberate twists. I sob into the furs, helpless under his weight. He keeps one hand on my lower back, holding me steady, and with the other he strokes that hidden spot again and again until I’m shaking.
By the time he slides in, I’m panting and slick and begging.
He takes me slow. Each stroke lands with meaning. He’s not trying to wreck me this time. Not trying to make me suffer as punishment for my mischief. He’s reminding me who I belong to. Who belongs to me.
He presses his mouth to the back of my neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses, his teeth grazing the bond mark. “You don’t need to chase proof anymore,” he whispers. “You have it. I want you, Eli. Always.”
Tears prick my eyes. I hate crying during sex. It’s annoying. But it always happens when he says shit like that.
“I know,” I say. “I just like the chase.”
Ronan grips my hips tighter, angling in deeper, and I cry out as he thrusts once, twice, then holds there, cock thick and pulsing inside me.
“I’ll always be there waiting for you,” he says hoarsely. “No matter how hard you push.”
I turn my head, and he kisses me upside-down, teeth clashing, tongues slick. It’s messy and sweet and makes the bond sing.
When I come, it’s sudden and sharp, untouched, ripped from me by his praise alone. Ronan holds me through it, grinding in deeper as I shake.
Afterward, he pulls me against his chest and buries his face in my hair.
“You’re mine,” he growls softly.
“I was always yours,” I murmur, voice thick. “I just need to make sure you believe it.”
“I do.” He kisses the bond mark. “I always will.”