A Harder Thing to Say Than to Do

You come to him one night wearing one of his big t-shirts and nothing else while he's sitting on the couch watching hockey, idly sipping some gross hazy IPA you don't like, but he looks so good with his legs spread like a dominant alpha male, paint-splattered jeans tight across his crotch, long hair loose around his powerful shoulders, and you want him bad.

Not that it's news or anything—you've basically been fucking like rabbits for the past three months. It's just—he's so handsome, and he somehow knows exactly how to fuck you to get you off every time. You have good sex, and you can't get enough of sitting in his lap or having him looming over you in bed, pistoning his powerful hips and murmuring your name like a prayer into your sweaty neck.

So, seeing him relaxed and unguarded in his home is a turn-on, so what? There's nothing hotter than a man who could rend someone limb from limb with his bare hands looking soft and distracted and happy. You shiver a little at the thought, starting to get hot under the collar as you silently traipse through the kitchen and tiptoe across the hardwood floor, approaching like a hunting predator. Except he's the only predator in this house, and you both know it.

You found out he's a werewolf in basically the worst way possible—dropping by his home on the full moon and finding a pack of humanoid wolf creatures with bright, glowing eyes frolicking around his backyard. You still remember seeing them through the sliding glass door, nipping at each other's hind legs, digging in the dirt with huge front paws. The toothy smile that broke out on his wolf face when he saw you still haunts you a little bit—big, round, white eyes and a grin that stretched his snout from side to side—but you recognized something in those eyes, that smile, and whispered his name into the holy space of his empty house. His ears pricked up at the sound of your voice, even through the glass door, and he threw his huge head back and howled loud and long. His family—his siblings, his pack, he explained later—joined in, and you had to cover your ears, worried all the windows would shatter.

Now, he hears you approach and tears his gaze away from the TV to look you slowly up and down, raking his green eyes up your bare legs, lighting up at the sight of you fiddling with the hem of his own shirt, how it brushes your mid-thigh and hangs loose at your elbows, the collar drooping to reveal your sharp clavicle like two knives pointing inward. He looks hungry suddenly, and the shifting light in his eyes ignites your fight or flight response, but that's all part of the fun; beating down biology and instinct to go to him when he beckons for you, climbing into the lap of an apex predator and allowing him to settle his big hands on your hips.

This is how you play—if he had more secluded land around his house you know he'd want to chase you and fuck you in the woods until you screamed. He's never said that in so many words, afraid it might scare you, probably, but you can feel it in his taught muscles as he holds you, the playful, crooked grin on his lips, the way his foot taps on the floor like he wants to run fast and hard. Not away from you—never—but after you.

"Hey sweetheart," he says, unable to stop the smile creeping into his voice. God, but he's so gone on you it's almost embarrassing. "You want something?"

You nod, bite your lip, pulling out all the stops. He likes when you duck your head, look at him from under your lashes. Shy, coy, mischievous. He likes that you can play the game. You shift in his lap, make it look like you're just getting comfortable, but you subtly grind against him and watch his eyes go a little glassy. Really you want to press your hips down and whine, but not just yet. Save it, you tell yourself, make him work for it. He may be a dangerous animal, but you have him wrapped around your little finger like a tangled string.

"You want to watch the Rangers with me?" he asks, and you shake your head, give him a little pout. He laughs low in his chest and you feel it where you touch him. He hauls you closer by the hips and hums, says, "Didn't think so."

He pulls you close so you have to fall forward with your head nestled under his chin and he strokes his big hand down your back, teasing the hem of your shirt and the warm skin underneath. His hands are rough and callused from years of working for his father's restoration company, rebuilding Victorian homes upstate. You like that he works with his hands, that his body is strong and solid as a live oak, that he can pick you up and carry you around the house and not even break a sweat. He's not unnaturally ripped like he just stepped out of Playgirl, but he's fit, with a hidden strength that comes out when he swings a sledgehammer to break up a rotting porch, or when he grabs you around the waist and hoists you up in his arms so you can grab something on the top shelf in the kitchen.

The way you're sitting, perched in his lap with your arms wound around his neck, your back is tightly arched like a bowstring. He grabs two handfuls of your ass and spreads it, making you gasp and cling tighter.

"Hmm," he says, low against your forehead, tickling your floppy hair with his breath. "I think I know what you want." His middle finger brushes feather-light between your cheeks, feeling where you prepped yourself earlier. He's right, you do want this, wanted this all day, from the moment you woke up and saw him striped with early morning light through the blinds. His hair was wild, he had one arm thrown over his head on the pillow, and there was a tiny bit of drool at the corner of his mouth, but he looked so beautiful in that moment that you had to squeeze your thighs together under the blankets as a rush of heat hit you. He's mine, you thought, I get to have this all to myself.

"What are you thinking about?" he says quietly, nudging his nose against your hair like a dog. He is so blissfully canine around you it makes your heart hurt sometimes. Instead of answering, you lean back and finally grind against his lap, moving your hips in a tight, practiced circle. He nearly sinks into the couch cushions, eyes shuttering closed and fingers tightening on your thighs. The noise he makes lights up your insides and makes you want to squirm in the best way.

"C'mere baby," he says, beckoning you closer with a finger, sounding like someone just punched him in the chest. "Give me a kiss."

You go like you just had your strings cut, lunging forward to kiss him hungrily, like an animal, and he sinks his hands into your hair and tugs you impossibly closer. He bites at your bottom lip, licks up your neck, sucks a mark high up under your jaw where nothing will cover it. He's possessive, wants everyone to know who you belong to. Everyone with eyes already knows you're his, and everyone in a 3-mile radius with a supernatural sense of smell knows it too. You smell like each other constantly—normal smells like fresh baked bread and raspberries, or pine and cigarettes and something dark and ancient. But those are usually undercut by the smell of heat and sex and cum, and almost every wolf you've come in contact with in the past three months hasn't hesitated to tell you. Usually it's men, and usually they get punched in the face for their troubles. Part of you doesn't want to admit it turns you on.

While you've been thinking, he's been grabbing your ass in his strong hands, dipping his fingers between your cheeks to feel where you're wet and hot and wanting. He hums against your hairline, kisses your forehead, and asks,

"This what you want, baby?"

You whine against his neck and feel him chuckle, feel him start petting your wet hole a little more insistently. Your mind goes blank, replaced by the electric shocks zinging up your body when he strokes you where you're slick and ready. He's not even inside you yet and you're melting, turned to putty by his knowing hands. He's frustratingly composed while he's reduced you to wriggling in his lap and making pathetic little whines in the back of your throat, so you lean in close and rub your face against his neck and collarbone the way you know he likes. Something about scenting, he's explained it to you before, but it makes him buck his hips up into yours, nearly unseating you from his lap. He grabs you harder, laughs again, and kisses you languidly, indulgently, like you just did something he's proud of.

"Tell me," he says, petting through your hair, mumbling against your cheek. "Use your words, puppy."

The demand makes you whine high in your throat again and the nickname makes you tighten your fingers where they're tangled in the front of his t-shirt. You can't remember when he started calling you that, but it was innocent enough until you found out he's a werewolf. Now he calls you that and you think, yeah, I'll be your little fuck puppy if you want. It's almost like pseudo puppy play with someone who actually knows what it's like to tear through the woods on all fours. You've decided you don't know quite what to do with that information, but it feels good anyway.

Fuck me, please, you tell him—just because you're desperate doesn't mean you have to be rude—murmur, keep your clothes on.

"Yeah?" he replies. "Want me to take my cock out so you can ride it just like this?"

You breathe yes against the whorl of his ear, which makes him start a low rumble in his chest, pleased. You've heard him do this before—sometimes it's a growl, sometimes it's more of a purr, but you can feel it rolling through your body where you're leaning against him now. It's one of the hottest things he does, and you grind your hips against his almost involuntarily. A mindless puppy-response to the canine sound emanating from him.

He scoots you back to sit on his strong thighs so he can undo his jeans, popping the button fly and reaching in to pull out his hard cock. No matter how many times you've seen his dick, the reveal will always get you—big, hard, thick, it slaps against his belly, the tip red and wet, ready for you. He strokes it a few times with his wide palm, and while he's pretty proportionate to his dick, you know for a fact that you need almost two hands to fully wrap around it. Your mouth floods with saliva in a Pavlovian response, and God, but you want to get on your knees for him right now. If you weren't so on edge already you would draw it out, make him squirm with your expert mouth. You both know you can make him come from just a blowjob, but that's not what you want tonight. You've been thinking about this all day and you're going to get it—he's going to pound you into the couch with his big, hard dick, and you're going to love every second of it.

Absentmindedly, you think, are big dicks a wolf thing? Although you do remember him telling you once, The Helvigs are notoriously well-endowed, it's why there are so many of us, so maybe it's not a wolf thing, but maybe the men in his family are so well-endowed because they're all wolves. You don't really know any other dicks to compare his to because he's basically ruined you for anyone else, but you can't say you're complaining.

When your eyes refocus and you come out of your thoughts, he's stroking a slow hand up and down his cock, looking at you fondly with a small smile. "There you are," he says. And Jesus Christ but you think you might love him a little because he lets you get lost in your thoughts even when his dick is right there, waiting for you to touch. He lets you come to him, doesn't push you, doesn't get impatient. Simply waits, smiling at you like you hung the damn moon for him, and suddenly you think, oh my God, what if I did?

You fall forward and kiss him to bring yourself back to the present, tangling your fingers in his long hair and tugging. He kisses with an urgency you can feel in your gut. You run your tongue over his slightly crooked, unnaturally prominent canines and he lets out a rumbling growl deep in his chest. He grabs your hips and yanks you forward, letting his cock slap against your ass and nestle against your wet hole, nudging just slightly in a toe-curling tease. He holds himself by the base as you lift up on your knees, your hot face pressed against his neck, and when he begins to slide inside slowly you gasp, digging your teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

"Relax sweetheart," he murmurs, voice gravelly with his low growl still rumbling through him. "You're still so tight, puppy, you have to relax."

This makes you whine, and you tell him, it's so big, I can't. You're still wet with lube from earlier, and you've taken this dick enough times that you should be used to it, but it's almost like the first time every time. Without the overwhelmed crying from your actual first time, of course, although sometimes a little tear will still slip out when he stretches you to your limit. He always thumbs it away, kisses the corners of your closed eyes, your cheeks, your nose, finally your mouth. He always takes care of you, and oh, fuck, you think, is this what love looks like?

You sink down on his cock a little too quickly to chase that thought away, which leaves you gasping and moaning and squirming in his lap. He makes another sound like someone just punched him in the gut and grabs your thighs, digging his rough fingers in and spreading your knees an inch more. You don't know where to put your hands, so you settle them over your abdomen and press hard as if you can feel him seated deep inside you.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, tossing his head against the back of the couch. "Are you okay? Does it hurt?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just takes your hands away from your stomach and laces your fingers together, dragging your arms up to wrap around his neck. He then skims his hands lightly down your sides, tickling you and making you laugh, which jostles you in his lap and makes you groan low and long.

"That's it," he murmurs as you start to make little circles with your hips. When he looks at you there's a twinkle of something soft in his green eyes that makes you furrow your brow and whine. He leans forward and kisses your cheek, trailing his mouth down to yours and licking inside. When you close your eyes he grabs your chin and shakes, making you look at him, his gaze intense. He looks like he wants to eat you alive. Your tongue lolls from your mouth as you start to bounce in his lap, his strong arms wrapping tight around your thin waist. "Take what you need, puppy," he says, slotting his face into the crook of your neck.

A thought comes to you then, hearing him call you that. You want to try something, and it'll either go very bad, or very, very good. As you're busy thinking, he bucks his hips up as you drop down, hitting a spot inside you that sends sparks shooting through your gut. You make up your mind then, grind down on his dick and whine,

Alpha.

He looks up at you suddenly and your stomach does a pleasurable flip. His intense eyes bore into yours, fiery and blood-red, and you know you got it right. No one told you or gave you any hints, but you've been paying attention—his family defers to him on important decisions, serves him first during dinners, and bows their blond heads minutely when he walks into a room. And then there's the way he is with you—touching you reverently, taking care of you. Like it's in his bones to be a leader, a provider. So, you guessed. And, judging by the low-register growl that emerges from his throat, you guessed right.

His kiss is aggressive, full of teeth and big emotions. He squeezes you around the middle for a second before he lifts you off his cock and throws you on your back on the couch, looming big and dangerous over you. His eyes glow red in the shadowy living room and you feel like a caught prey animal. Except your stomach ripples with pleasure and excitement instead of fear.

"Say it again," he snarls, his voice gravelly with one hand on his dick, lining himself up. "I want to hear you say it again, baby."

Alpha, you moan weakly, tucking your knees up by your shoulders and thanking God that you're flexible, Alpha please, fuck me Alpha—

He thrusts home as you plead for him, making you cry out and claw at his shoulders, pulling on his t-shirt, and you're reminded that he still has all his clothes on. The urgency of it turns you on, makes something pull behind your belly button. That could also be him hitting that spot inside you over and over and over again, however.

And then he's pulling out of you just as quickly, grabbing your hips and flipping you on your stomach. You lean up over the arm of the couch as he pistons his hips against your ass, slotting his cock inside you with precision. He clamps one big hand around the back of your neck, just holding you there as you scrabble against the arm of the couch, throwing your ass back to meet his thrusts. His free hand grabs you by the thigh and lifts your leg to wrap around his hip. You feel exposed, vulnerable, yet strangely cherished. Even in his near-mindless rut he strokes his thumb back and forth against your throat.

Alpha, you mutter against the fabric of the couch, drooling a little as he fucks you silly. Alpha, I need—I'm gonna—

"Yeah?" he grunts, starting to breathe hard. "You're gonna come on my cock, baby? Gonna be a good puppy and take this Alpha knot in your sweet little hole?"

You gasp at the same time you clench down hard on his dick and he almost roars, grabs your hips in both hands and yanks you onto his cock with every thrust. You're so close you can taste it, can feel it in the soles of your feet all the way to the top of your head. A sharp, shiny feeling, with your whole body tensed like a drawn sword.

You are not above begging. Let me take it, please Alpha, I can take your knot, you whine, because part of you believes he's just leaning into dirty talk, letting it get ahead of him a little bit. There's another part of you, however, that thinks, what if he really does have a knot?

That question is answered sooner than you thought it would be, as you feel something large and hot pressing at the rim of your hole.

"Fuck," he groans, "I've never—never knotted anyone before."

That more than anything makes your eyes roll back in your head—you're going to be his first. You gave him all your firsts, and now you get to take one from him. Your head absolutely spins with it. You don't care if it hurts, if the werewolf porn you've read is right and he has to stay inside you for an hour, if he goes berserk and claws your belly open and you bleed out on the couch. It'll be worth it to have that knot pressing on all your good spots as you die.

You turn your head to catch his eyes, still glowing a brilliant red in the darkened room, the sun having set some time ago with thick golden bars of light through the blinds. Give it to me, you tell him, voice as steady and deathly serious as you can make it at the moment. I want it, Alpha.

He pets down your back and snuffles his nose against your temple, ruffling your hair with his breath in that canine way he has. "You are such a gift I don't deserve," he mutters, voice full of emotion, but you won't be having any of that—you bully him off your back with your sharp elbows until he sits on his heels, tilting his head like a confused dog. However, you only lay down on your back again, grabbing the front of his t-shirt to pull him down with you.

Like this, you say. I want to see you.

He gives you a look full of so much swirling emotion you think you might drown in it. This was supposed to be a fun fuck on the couch to make him pay attention to you instead of the dumb hockey game but now it's turning into more than you initially bargained for. You think you're falling in love—not some stupid puppy love where you drool all over his dick and whine in his lap, you're over that now. This feels—you can't describe it. Heavy, maybe, in a way that holds you down and anchors you to your present self.