Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 168701 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 844(@200wpm)___ 675(@250wpm)___ 562(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 168701 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 844(@200wpm)___ 675(@250wpm)___ 562(@300wpm)
“Thank you, Lincoln,” she calls out. “For the microwave and for finding my shoes last night.”
“You’re welcome, Erica. Welcome to the pack. Later.”
I bare my teeth, then hear more footsteps. The door shutting. I move us back out.
“Coffee cake.” I spy the container on the counter. I open the fridge. “Fruit salad. Yeah?” I look at her face. “Nothing to heat up to get us some fuel for starters.”
She doesn’t try to hide her sadness and it feels like a kick in the nuts. She swallows, then nods. “Could I make coffee or tea?”
I move to the counter and lean her against it while opening the door to the cupboard (I know from visiting Ty and Ivy here) has the filters and coffee.
Not easy filling the pot and making the coffee with a woman attached to my cock, so she pitches in, swiveling sideways as best as she can, taking the pot and filling it with water, scooping the coffee into the filter I’ve pulled out, and pressing buttons after I’ve slid the filter basket into place. After she presses the button, I pull out two forks from the drawer and she lifts the cinnamon streusel coffee cake my aunt makes and holds it while I get the tub of fruit from the fridge. I move the chair sideways and sit at an angle letting us both access the table.
After she pulls the lids off both containers, I grab a hunk of cake and offer her the first bite.
She startles with surprise and then leans forward and nibbles a little dainty bite off the end, eyes on mine.
“Fuck manners. I’m fucking starving.” I shove the rest of what’s in my hand into my mouth.
Yeah. I’m fucked in the head right now, but something made me feed her first at least.
She smiles a gorgeous, beaming smile, but then it disappears just as fast as it appeared and that’s probably because of the grouchy look I feel on my mug. Watching that pretty smile die makes my gut churn.
Taking it in stride, she takes my cue and grabs a hunk of cake with her fingers and attacks it like she’s half-starved. I follow suit and grab another big chunk. My aunt sure makes a great fuckin’ coffee cake. Every couple that mates in this pack gets one of these sent over.
Our fingers clash a couple times as we both go for the fruit salad, not bothering with the forks that are right beside us.
The coffee maker beeps, and she perks up with excitement, head turning to look at it. I lift her and move us to the counter. She twists the tap on and rinses her hand before she reaches into the still open cupboard and pulls down two cups and sets them on the counter. I pour into both mugs as she reaches up for the sugar bowl.
“Cream, sugar?” she asks.
I move us to the fridge and grab the cream.
“Lots of cream, no sugar,” I say.
She adds sugar to one, and cream to both cups and stirs and lifts them both. I carry her back to the chair and she sets them on the table.
She snorts.
Our eyes meet.
“Guess it’s like being in a get-along shirt.”
I frown.
She explains, “Our neighbor when we were kids living in Drowsy Hollow before we moved away… they had two really rowdy boys that used to fight all the time. I was just a little kid, but I vividly remember them being put in this giant dad-sized button-down shirt on their front lawn and on their back was a sign taped saying the get-along shirt. Their parents would get so fed up with them fighting and when they hit their limit, they’d have to wear this shirt together, only having use of one arm each as the other arm would be stuck inside the shirt so they’d have to work together to make sure they managed to… you know… accomplish things. They’d have to wear it a whole day and by the end of the day, they wouldn’t be fighting, they’d be working together. That’s kind of how we have to be right now.”
I reach for another handful of cake and eat it.
She deflates before reaching for her coffee and blowing on it.
The shape of her mouth fascinates me as I watch her blow into the cup and then lick her lips.
“Shit,” I grunt, going hard inside her. She sets the coffee down, knowing what’s coming.
The minute my knot revs up, her pussy clamps down hard, pulling a groan from me.
She winces and then buries her face in my shoulder.
“Oh no,” she cries out.
I hate that she’s sore. I hate that I can’t find words to communicate that to her. Because I’m so majorly fucked up. My senses are wrong. My body is traitorously holding onto my mate because it doesn’t want me taking off on her again and I know, bone deep, that if it let me go I’d instantly shift with the need to run for the forest, looking to devour everything I can sink my teeth into. To blank out my rage. At this situation. At her. At mostly myself for the way I’m acting and how I’m failing at everything.