Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha novel Chapter 137

Chapter 137: Elevator Memories (II)

The sound of rending fabric tears through the elevator’s hush. Cool air hits my skin as my shirt splits apart, buttons pinging against the mirrored walls like tiny projectiles. My shirt hangs open from my shoulders, exposing my plain beige bra—practical, not sexy, because who the hell knew this morning I’d be half-naked in a luxury elevator?

"Logan!" I hiss, wanting to be mortified but also shoving my ass against him in tacit approval of his caveman instincts. "I don’t have another shirt with me—"

He pulls my head to the side and back so he can kiss me, swallowing my protest. The angle is different, making everything somehow new and erotic. The hard press of his body pins me against the cool mirror, and I’m caught between the chill at my back and the furnace of his chest. His hands slide to my shoulders, peeling my shirt down my arms and letting it flutter to the floor like discarded gift wrap.

"Been thinking about this for days," he murmurs against my lips, his hands now splaying across my breasts as they strain against my bra. "Couldn’t focus on the mission. Just kept seeing you. Spread out. Begging."

My breath hitches at his words. The mere suggestion makes something liquid pool between my legs, despite my indignation over the shirt.

He’s gotten dirtier. This is a whole new world of Logan’s and I am not sure I’m ready for this invitation.

"You can’t just—" I whisper, but his thumb slips into the cup of my bra to brush over my nipple, and my argument dissolves into a moan.

He trails hot, open-mouthed kisses over my shoulder. "Can’t want you so badly I can’t think straight?" He punctuates each word with a gentle nip, and I’m suddenly not sure if my legs will hold me upright. "Can’t imagine bending you over every surface I see?"

One hand slides down, ditching my breast to cup my ass, squeezing hard before his fingers slide between my thighs.

My jeans are still bunched around my knees, restricting my movement, making me feel deliciously vulnerable.

"I—you—the shirt—" My thoughts scatter like marbles on a tile floor, impossible to collect with his mouth doing what it’s doing.

"I’ll buy you a hundred shirts," he promises, trailing kisses down my back. "A warehouse full."

I should be irritated. This is classic alpha werewolf possessiveness—treating my belongings as disposable, assuming anything can be replaced with money. But there’s something darkly thrilling about being wanted with such desperate abandon that even clothing becomes an obstacle to be destroyed.

"Better be designer," I manage to quip, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while standing half-naked in an elevator.

A private elevator.

Fuck me.

Logan’s laugh vibrates against my skin. "Only the best for my mate."

The word shoots through me like an electric current. Like it’s a settled fact, like I belong to him as surely as the sun rises in the east. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

My body responds with a traitorous shiver of delight.

The tease of his fingers between my thighs disappears, and he grips both sides of my hips. "Put your hands on the wall."

I obey without thinking, and he kneels behind me, pressing a soft kiss against each globe of my ass.

His grip slides down my thighs, until he reaches my jeans tethering my knees together. Slowly, with the utmost care, he brushes kisses down the back of my thigh as I finally understand what he’s about to do.

I kick off my shoes, and he lifts my leg out of its prison. First one, then the other, his lips hot against my legs and his breath sending delicious shivers through my body.

Once free, he stands—slowly, trailing his mouth up my body as he goes. Once he reaches my hips, he grips them hard before yanking me back, until I’m bent nearly parallel to the floor.

Yet another squeak escapes me. I’ve got to stop making that noise.

"I told you to hold on, babe." His rough, low voice is tense as he forces my legs open, opening me to his view.

I groan. "I did."

His thigh muscles must be fan-freaking-tastic. I have no idea how he’s squatting like this without needing to keel over.

"Fuck, Nicole. You’re gorgeous." His breath is hot against the core of me, and I shudder.

My heart’s doing aerobics in my chest, and he flicks his tongue against me—hot, stabbing little strikes, which only serve to tease.

"Yes." I sag in relief, grateful he’s dropping the torment. "Please."

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