TASTE OF A BROKEN LUNA

“Wes, just bite me or kiss me, but do something,” Jess whispered, her breath hitching as the bass from the speakers rattled the floorboards beneath her boots.

The lake house was a sweat-soaked den of shifting pheromones and cheap liquor. Wes—Ethan Cole to the rest of the pack—looked down at her, his pupils blown wide, nearly swallowing the hazel of his eyes. He wasn’t just a soccer player tonight; he was a predator wrestling with a leash.

“Your brothers will peel the skin from my bones, Jess,” Ethan rasped, his forehead dropping against hers. The heat coming off him was a physical weight. “Jonathan especially. He’s already got a scent lock on me from across the room.”

“Let him watch,” Jess said. She reached up, her fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down that final inch.

Ethan broke.

His mouth crashed into hers, tasting of hops and raw, unrefined hunger. It wasn't the polished, practiced kiss of Michael Reynolds. This was messy. It was desperate. His tongue swept past her lips, claiming her mouth with a low groan that vibrated through her entire chest. Jess pushed her body flush against his, her small frame disappearing against the wall of his chest.

He didn't just hold her; he anchored her. One hand tangled in her new, short hair while the other slid down, his palm burning through the thin fabric of her dress until he reached the swell of her backside. He squeezed, hard, lifting her slightly off her feet.

“Fuck,” Ethan growled into her mouth. “I’ve wanted to do that since we were sixteen.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Jess gasped, her heart drumming a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

“Because Dominic Hale would’ve killed me before your brothers even got the chance.” Ethan pulled back just enough to look at her, his chest heaving. “He’s always had eyes on you, Jess. Even when he was halfway across the country, he was checking in. Making sure no one got too close.”

“Well, Dominic isn't here,” Jess lied, ignoring the way her skin prickled at the mention of the Alpha heir. “And I’m done being the untouchable Whitman sister.”

She grabbed the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. Ethan didn't need further encouragement. He spun her around, pinning her against the cool surface of the kitchen counter, his hands roaming over her hips with a frantic, messy energy.

“Up,” he commanded.

Jess hopped onto the counter, her legs wrapping around his waist. Ethan buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of her throat. He wasn't marking her—not yet—but the threat was there, a delicious promise of belonging.

His hand slid up the inside of her thigh, his fingers ghosting over the edge of her panties. Jess let out a jagged moan, her head hitting the cabinet behind her. The noise of the party—the laughter, the crashing of beer pong cups, Emily’s high-pitched giggle—faded into a dull hum. There was only the heat of Ethan’s skin and the sharp, metallic tang of his arousal.

“You’re so tight,” Ethan panted, his fingers finally making contact with her slick center. “And you’re doing this to me. Just me.”

“Yes,” Jess sobbed, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails drawing thin white lines across his tanned skin. “Ethan, please.”

He fumbled with his belt, his movements jerky and ungraceful. He didn't have the cold, private restraint of Dominic. He was raw, a young wolf driven by instinct. When he finally freed himself, Jess gasped at the sight of him—heavy, dark, and pulsing with a life of its own.

He didn't waste time. He gripped her waist, his thumbs bruising the skin, and drove into her.

Jess’s scream was lost in the thumping bass of the music. He was thick, stretching her until she felt like she might break, but the pain was immediately swallowed by a wave of white-hot pleasure. He started to move, a fast, punishing rhythm that made the counter creak beneath them.

“You like that?” Ethan gasped, his eyes locked on hers. “You like a man who doesn’t ask permission?”

“Don't stop,” Jess cried, her legs tightening around him, her heels digging into his back.

He was relentless. He pounded into her, his sweat dripping onto her chest, the salt of their skin mixing as they slid against each other. It was messy, the sound of their bodies colliding a rhythmic, wet slapping that made Jess’s face flush with heat. Every thrust hit a spot that made her toes curl and her vision fracture.

The tension built, a coil of lightning tightening in her belly. Ethan’s pace became frantic, his breathing a series of ragged grunts. He reached down, his thumb finding the nub of her pleasure, working it in tandem with his thrusts.

“Dom,” Jess whispered, the name slipping out before she could catch it.

Ethan froze. The rhythm stopped. He stayed buried inside her, his muscles corded and shaking.

“What did you just say?” his voice was a low, dangerous snarl.

Jess’s eyes snapped open, the haze of pleasure clearing. “I—I didn't—”

“You called me his name.” Ethan pulled out of her with a wet pop, his face twisting with a mix of shock and betrayal. He stepped back, his chest heaving, his manhood still weeping and angry in the dim light. “You’re thinking about him. Even now. Even while I’m inside you.”

“Ethan, wait—”

“No wonder he was so pissed when he heard I was taking you to this party.” Ethan shoved his hair back, his hands shaking as he adjusted his clothes. “You’re still his. You’ve always been his. I was just the distraction.”

“That’s not true!” Jess scrambled off the counter, her dress bunched around her waist, her legs trembling so hard she had to lean on the sink for support. The aftermath of the sex—the stinging skin, the lingering warmth, the heavy weight of the air—felt like a physical hangover.

“Save it, Jess.” Ethan turned away, his voice cold. “Go find him. He’s probably waiting in the shadows anyway. He usually is.”

Ethan walked out of the kitchen without a backward glance, leaving Jess alone in the dark. She stood there, her breath coming in jagged hitches, the silence of the room louder than the party outside.

She reached for a paper towel, wiping the evidence of him from her thighs, her mind a chaotic storm. Why had she said his name? Why did the thought of Dominic Hale feel like a brand on her soul?

She walked back into the living room, trying to find Emily, trying to find a way out of her own head. But the crowd was parting.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure stood in the doorway, the light from the porch silhouetting a frame that made Ethan look like a child. The scent hit her before she even saw his face—sandalwood, rain, and the unmistakable, crushing power of an Alpha.

Dominic Hale didn't look at the party. He didn't look at the beer or the dancers. His eyes, glowing a fierce, predatory gold, locked onto Jess.

He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. He walked toward her, the crowd shrinking back as if he were carrying a literal flame. He stopped a foot away, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of Ethan on her.

Dominic’s jaw creaked as he ground his teeth, his knuckles turning a bloodless white. He reached out, his hand closing around her wrist with a grip that was both a rescue and a prison.

“We’re leaving,” he said, the sub-vocal vibration of his voice making her bones ache.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Jess snapped, though her pulse was betraying her.

“You are.” Dominic leaned down, his voice a lethal whisper intended only for her. “Because your brother Jonathan just walked into the basement, and he’s looking for the man who put his hands on you. Unless you want a corpse on your conscience, you’ll get in my car right fucking now.”

As if on cue, a roar of pure, animal rage echoed from below the floorboards.