More Than Just a Cycle

The apartment was dark, the fridge humming faintly in the kitchen while the floorboards groaned under my feet. My heart was still racing—my whole body on fire, thrumming with echoes of what I'd done. Every inch of me ached in the best and worst ways, my fur prickling with leftover adrenaline, and the sharp tang of guilt settling like a lump in my throat. I shouldn't have done it. But I had.

It all started with a stupid argument in the parking lot—Brandon snapped at me for being short with him, and I snapped back because I was so goddamn tired of feeling ignored. I just wanted some sign that he still saw me, actually wanted me. Instead, he drove off with squealing tires, leaving me there outside the gym, jaw clenched, stomach churning. That was when Duke slid into my life like a wrecking ball—too handsome for his own good, too confident, too quick to notice my scent, my cycle. Broad shoulders, green eyes that pinned me right where I stood, a knowing smirk that felt like it was daring me to do something reckless.

I tried to shake off my frustration on the treadmill, tried to burn it away in a mindless run, but my body betrayed me. By the time I was halfway through, my thighs were slick, my breath came too fast, and I could practically taste my own heat in the air. It was humiliating how wet I was, how obvious it must have been. The treadmill belt shone with it, and I bolted for the showers, desperate to calm down and pull myself together. But Duke followed. He cornered me against the cold tile wall like he owned the place, and the second his claws gripped my thighs, everything I'd been denying—every spark of hunger, every raw urge—took over. I practically begged him to keep going. I'd known him for less than an hour, yet I let him wreck me, let him knot me right there with the water pounding down on us. The memory still sent jolts through my fur: the sharp bite of his claws on my hips, the rumble of his growl in my ears, the impossible pressure when he locked inside me and made me come so hard I saw stars. It was wild, stupid, fucking incredible...and it was cheating.

Hours later, pacing in the dim light of my living room, I still felt overheated, my mind bouncing between guilt and something far uglier—because the truth was, I'd liked it. I liked how Duke looked at me, how he listened to me, how every part of him screamed that he wanted me. That was more than I'd gotten from Brandon in a long time. And now, that realization tore me apart: if I let Duke close again, if I gave in just a fraction, I wouldn't stop. My thumbs hovered over my phone, over his number, over the words I knew I shouldn't send. But I sent them anyway…

Lucy K: Hey…

The second I hit send, my stomach did a backflip. A hundred worst-case scenarios flashed through my head—maybe it was a fake number, maybe he'd forgotten me, maybe he'd passed my number around for laughs. But then my phone buzzed almost instantly.

Duke M: Hey, bright eyes.

That easy, confident tone practically leapt off the screen, so perfectly him I could hear it in my ears. My fur stood on end as I typed back:

Lucy K: Up late, gym boy?

His reply came slowly enough to make my tail lash with anticipation, those mocking dots flickering on the screen.

Duke M: Nah, still at work. Gettin' off soon though. What about you? Figured you'd be wiped after that workout.

“Cocky bastard," I muttered, rolling my eyes even as a traitorous heat pulsed between my legs.

Lucy K: Yeah, no thanks to you.

I tried to make it sound flippant, but my body tightened at the memory of his grip—how he pinned me open and dragged me over the edge again and again. A harsh swallow stuck in my throat, my panties uncomfortably damp while I waited for his next message.

Duke M: Funny, 'cause I remember you begging for more.

I could practically feel his smirk. My fingers twitched over the keyboard, already forming a snarky reply, but I hesitated.

The heat was still there—lingering between my thighs, coiled tight in my stomach, dripping into every unspoken word between us.

I exhaled slowly, rubbing a paw over my face. God, what was I doing? This was supposed to be just a distraction. Something reckless, stupid. Not something that made my heart pound for all the wrong reasons.

The pause stretched.

My phone buzzed again.

Duke M: You okay?

I blinked, my breath catching.

Another buzz.

Duke M: You went quiet. I didn't mean to push—just checking.

That wasn't the line I expected, not more flirting or a sly come-on—just a question, asking if I was okay. My ears flattened against my skull.

Lucy K: Yeah. Just dealing with some stuff.

There was a longer pause this time, like he was choosing his words carefully.

Duke M: I get it. If you wanna pretend this never happened, I won't bug you. I'm not trying to fuck up your life. Sorry.

Brandon had never apologized for anything in his life. I stared at Duke's words, my tail curled around my leg.

Lucy K: Thanks for understanding. It was just a one-time thing. My BF isn't much, but he deserves better than a—

The word cheater glared back at me on the screen, making my insides twist. A guilty heat crawled up my neck, my breath catching when Duke's name flashed again.

Duke M: I get it. It's not all on you though. Just one thing…

Before I could ask what he meant, a picture popped up: my purse, propped on the gym's lost-and-found counter. My heart plummeted. I didn't even have to check my gym bag to know it was gone, but I did anyway, rummaging around until I confirmed it. My wallet, my ID—everything, left behind like a giant neon sign that I'd been there.

Lucy K: Shit. I need that.

Duke M: Tried to call, but it went straight to voicemail. I get off in 30. Want me to drop it at your place?

My eyes flew to the hallway. Brandon was asleep in the bedroom, snoring lightly, oblivious to the sweat-and-sex smell that still clung to my fur. Absolutely not. I couldn't let Duke just roll up here. But I couldn't keep living without my ID, either. A sour taste filled my mouth, half guilt, half nerves, until I remembered The Rabbit Wash—that 24/7 laundromat down by the gym. It was always deserted at this hour.

Lucy K: Not my place. The laundromat by the gym.

He answered before I could regret it:

Duke M: The Rabbit Wash. Yeah, I know it.

Lucy K: Meet you there in 45.

Duke M: K.

I shoved my phone in my pocket and let out a shaky breath, staring at the muted glow of the television across the room. My fur still felt too tight, my mind spinning in circles. Brandon was in the other room. Duke was about to meet me at some godforsaken hour to hand me back the purse I'd dropped right after he'd—my face heated, a hot flush burning under my cheeks.

The screen dimmed, and I stood there, ears pricked to the sound of Brandon's quiet snores, my pulse thrumming against my ribs, wondering what the hell I was about to walk into—and why some part of me was so desperately eager to find out.

---

The air inside the house sat heavy, cloying against my fur—the kind of thick, stale quiet that made my ears flick and my lungs ache. Too still. Too settled. Brandon's breathing, slow and even from the bedroom, barely stirred the suffocating calm. Still asleep. Good.

I moved carefully, claws curled tight around my gym bag, debating whether to leave a half-assed note about running errands or not sleeping. But what was the point? He wouldn't notice. He never did. My jaw clenched as I crumpled the scrap paper and shoved it deep into my bag, where it belonged.

Stepping outside, the cold slapped my muzzle, slicing through my fur so sharply it yanked me from the daze I hadn't even realized I was in. It was the kind of biting cold that makes your breath sound too loud in your ears. I hurried to the car, slid into the driver's seat before my nerves could catch up. The leather was freezing against my thighs, but I hardly felt it, already firing the ignition, already backing out, gripping the wheel too tight as I drove straight for the laundromat.

By the time I arrived, the parking lot was deserted except for a single, flickering streetlamp buzzing like an insect, casting broken halos of yellow across the cracked pavement. The Rabbit Wash—open 24/7. A haven for college kids, graveyard-shift workers, and apparently cheating whores desperate to scrub the stain of their sins off their clothes.

I stepped inside, and the smell hit first: stale detergent, artificial lemon cleaner, and that undercurrent of something too sterile to be real. The place was dead, rows of industrial washers humming in near-silence, overhead fluorescents flickering like they belonged in some half-baked fever dream. I didn't linger. My feet carried me to the furthest row of machines, as far from the entrance as I could get.

I yanked open the washer, dumping my gym bag inside—then stopped. My fur bristled, lungs tightening. The second the bag hit the machine, something stirred in my chest, a reaction too sharp, too visceral. My paws hesitated over the zipper, heart hammering with a warning I didn't understand—until I opened it.

A wall of heat and musk hit me like a punch to the gut. Not just any scent—his. Duke. Raw, untamed, flooding out of the fabric like it had been waiting for me. My fingers curled involuntarily, claws pressing into the bag's lining as if gripping it tighter would make the reaction less intense. The air itself felt weighted, pressing on my lungs, coiling around my ribs, relentless. I didn't know if I wanted to bolt or breathe it in forever.

I forced myself not to run. Instead, I snapped up the whole damn bag—still zipped—and shoved it in. Bag and all. No rifling for clothes, no letting my fingers brush anything that might drag me right back into the memory: the heated crush of his body pinning me, the sharp nip of teeth at my throat, the push of rough hands forcing my legs apart— No. Not doing this.

Snatching the detergent bottle, I upended half of it, watching the thick, bluish gel glop into the machine. That chemical reek stung my nose but wasn't nearly strong enough. I slammed the door, punched the buttons with more force than I meant to. The washer groaned, water sloshing, suds rising against the glass. Yet his scent—his—still clung to my fur, like it was buried deeper than any soap could reach.

I dropped onto a cracked plastic chair, elbows on my knees, claws scraping my scalp. My phone buzzed, but I ignored it, thumbing through my photo gallery instead.

Brandon and me. A million pictures—smiles, arms wrapped around each other, casual touches that should've meant something. Once, they had. Now, the longer I stared, the tighter my stomach twisted. When had it changed? Six months ago, when he started looking through me instead of at me? The last time he kissed me like he actually wanted me? Or had I just been lying to myself the entire time?

That thought curled in my gut, sharp and ugly. I got so lost in it that I didn't sense anyone beside me until something moved—until a hand extended into my line of sight, two fingers pinching something small and familiar.

My purse.

“Hey. You okay?"

I jerked, phone slipping, my head whipping up—and there he was.

Duke.

Standing over me, casual as ever, my purse dangling from his fingers, green eyes watchful, unreadable, like he could see exactly what kind of mess I was in. Like he could smell it on me.

My tail flicked, my stomach clenched. I should've been embarrassed—should've seized the purse, muttered some excuse—but my throat felt too dry, my body locked up. So, for a second, I just sat there.

And Duke? He just waited. Totally unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

I opened my mouth, tried to say something, anything, but my brain short-circuited. My eyes roamed over him before I forced them to the floor, managing only a whispery, “Thank you." My cheeks burned under my fur, and I swore he could smell the heat rolling off me.

He just shrugged, his voice easy, self-assured. “No worries," he said. Then he hoisted a hefty bundle of clothes from his own bag—balled T-shirts, probably underwear—and dumped them into the machine next to mine. That's when I noticed I could smell me on him. My hackles prickled, half mortified, half…something else entirely. He slammed the washer door shut, stretched, rolling broad shoulders with a relieved groan. “Man, that shift was way too long. Felt like you were on my back the whole time." His muzzle tipped into a mischievous grin, eyes flicking my way like a tease.

I bristled, words spilling before I could stop them. “Oh, and that's bad?"

He laughed—low, intimate, like I'd given him exactly what he'd been fishing for. “Bad? Nah, just…distracting," he said, punching the washer controls with a flourish. “Like I was haunted all shift by this cute wolf who refused to leave my head." Then he straightened, raising his arms above his head in a full stretch. My eyes tracked that silhouette—broad chest outlined by a snug V-neck, a pair of worn jeans hanging low on his hips. I swallowed, hating how it made my heart jolt.

He caught me looking, tossed a lazy grin, then eased into a seat two chairs away. Close enough that his warmth rippled over me—warm fur, subtle musk, a million reminders of what we'd done—but not so close that I felt cornered. Somehow, that was almost worse. My ears flicked with nervous energy, bracing for him to close the gap.

I exhaled, hands twisting in my lap, trying not to breathe in the tempting swirl of Duke's presence. The hum of washers, the fluorescent buzz—they all turned to background static. The real tension sat two chairs away, in a brown wolf who'd admitted I was in his head all day. Meanwhile, I was trying not to shake from the inside, torn between wanting him closer and fearing what would happen if he obliged.

We sat like that, the washers churning, our breathing uneven, caught between tension and restraint. My mind spun in circles—touch me, don't, please, oh God—each thought colliding with the next, leaving me dizzy, restless, unsure if I wanted to lean in or run.

Then, out of nowhere, my stomach let out a loud, mortifying growl. The sound cut through the laundromat, sharp and insistent, scolding me like a slap. My ears burned. Oh, for fuck's sake. The hunger hit all at once, a sharp, hollow ache curling in my gut. I hadn't eaten since yesterday's pre-workout, and now the shakes were creeping in—half from hunger, half from the lingering heat simmering under my fur.

I lifted my gaze to find Duke watching me again—this time no smirk, just quiet concern. I tried not to squirm under that stare. “I, uh...missed dinner," I muttered, embarrassed that something as mundane as hunger felt weirder to admit than all the things we'd already done.

He nodded once, then stood up and—without ceremony—draped his jacket over my lap. “C'mon," he said, heading toward the door. I couldn't tell if it was cockiness or bone-deep confidence, but either way, my body responded instantly. I got up, pulling his jacket tight around my shoulders. Warmth bathed me, thick with wolfy scent—musky, comforting, overwhelming. My heart pounded, my head spun at that closeness. I liked it way too much.

I followed him outside, matching his casual strides. “There's a little gas station up the street," he said, not slowing. “Family-owned. Best wieners on this side of town."

I snorted quietly, shutting down the mental images my horny brain conjured. “Are you sure about that?" I mumbled, instantly regretting my cheesy retort.

He chuckled, a low sound that mixed with the icy night air. Spotting me shiver, he glanced sidelong. “Cold?"

“Freezing," I admitted, hugging his jacket tighter around my fur. “You?"

He shook his head. “Nah, my fur's thick. Don't usually bother with jackets unless I need the pockets."

I lost my composure for a second—my hand drifted to his chest, claws brushing the front of his shirt, feeling the solid plane of muscle beneath heavy fur. The heat rolling off him made my pulse skip. “God, I'm jealous," I blurted, then snatched my hand away like I'd touched a live wire.

A lazy grin tugged his muzzle. “It's great now," he said as we turned the corner. “But summer's a bitch."

I forced a small laugh. Already, my nose picked up the greasy, tantalizing smell wafting from the station's flickering lights—bright, welcoming, maybe offering me a fleeting sense of normal. But beneath that, my thoughts churned: I was wearing Duke's jacket—his. His scent. His warmth. It shouldn't have felt this good. It shouldn't have made my pulse flutter. But some part of me was way too happy about it to let go.

We slipped into that cramped little gas station like two conspirators on a midnight mission, fluorescent bulbs flickering overhead, the greasy tang of stale fryer oil and burnt coffee hitting my nose. Duke breezed to the counter, rattling off an order of loaded hot dogs and grabbed two styrofoam cups of coffee that smelled half a step from ash. I nearly gagged, but my empty stomach overruled me, growling so loud Duke's ears flicked in amusement. I tried not to let that smug little smirk unnerve me. A few minutes later, we were back at the laundromat, unwrapping foil under the sickly lights, the hum of the washers filling the quiet. We sat a bit closer than before—just one plastic chair between us, a small barrier we both pretended not to see.

I tore into my hot dog, forcing myself to focus on the greasy, salty taste instead of the images creeping back in—the memory of Duke pinning me against the shower wall, the unstoppable heat between us. My stomach growled loudly enough to catch Duke's attention, his lips curling into that familiar, knowing smirk. Embarrassment twisted through me, and I desperately sought a distraction before my thoughts spiraled again.

“So, Duke… never seen you around. You from here?"

He shook his head so hard a streak of mustard went airborne, landing dead center on his shirt. I snorted as he stared at it, unimpressed.

“Nah," he said, swiping uselessly at the stain, “I'm from a land down under."

Without missing a beat, I smirked. "Where women glow and men plunder?" My voice dipped into an exaggerated husk as I gave him the slowest, most obnoxiously obvious once-over—lingering on broad shoulders, thick arms, and the stretch of his shirt over his chest.

Duke froze mid-wipe, eyes snapping to mine. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Did you just—?"

“Oh, I did," I confirmed, arching an eyebrow.

The tension shattered as he barked out a sharp, belly-deep laugh, tail flicking behind him. “Crikey, you caught me," he declared in a mockingly thick accent, puffing his chest like a cartoon hero. “I'd wrestle a croc right here, but I'm afraid I'd spook the locals."

“Oh please." I waved a hand dismissively, trying very hard not to picture him wrestling anything. “If you can't handle a mustard bottle, no way you're taking on a croc."

Duke licked a stray drop of mustard off his thumb, far too slowly to be innocent. “Oh, I can handle a lot more than you think, sweetheart."

I leaned in closer, resting my chin in my palm, eyes locked onto his. “Monster Island, huh? That place is basically a giant death trap."

“Only if you're slow," he retorted, chewing his next bite with exaggerated casualness.

“So the rumors are true?"

His tail flicked. “Depends. What rumors?"

I dropped my voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "That everything is venomous, trying to eat you… or fuck you."

Duke choked so violently I thought I'd have to Heimlich his ass. “Jesus, Lucy."

“Am I wrong?" I grinned wickedly.

He shook his head, laughing. “Sadly… no. If it doesn't kill you, it's probably trying to mate with you." He leaned in, lowering his voice dramatically. “Hell, there's a bird back home that'll fuck a traffic cone if you leave it alone too long."

I slammed my hands on the table. “And they let you off that island?"

“Barely," he admitted with a smirk. “I might've left before my mandatory mating-season obligations kicked in."

I nearly spat out my coffee. “So you're escaping the freaky monster fuckers back home?"

Duke shrugged, flashing a toothy grin. “Hey, I got tired of being a local delicacy."

I leaned in close, catching the warm musk beneath the coffee and mustard. “Oh, so you are delicious?"

His gaze flicked to my lips. “You tell me."

A flush burned beneath my fur, but I didn't pull away. “So, if Monster Island is such a paradise of venomous sex-monsters, what the hell are you doing here?"

He chewed slowly, deliberately making me wait. “Work, mostly. Economy's a mess back home. Had to get off my ass and make some money."

I raised a brow. “Let me guess—highly specialized, life-saving trade?"

He snorted. “More like forklift repair and odd jobs. Saving up to start my own thing."

“My uncle's like that," I nodded knowingly. “Jack of all trades. Swears by duct tape and cursing at inanimate objects."

Duke chuckled, his expression shifting into something decidedly filthy. “Well, if that doesn't work out, I've got a backup plan."

“Please tell me it involves exotic dancing."

He leaned in so close I felt his breath against my ear. “Nah. Male escort."

I choked again. “A what?"

“Yeah," he said casually. “Thinking I'd call myself The Tasmanian Tallywhacker."

I nearly lost it entirely. “The what?! That sounds like a black-market carnival ride!"

He shrugged. “Try riding it sometime and tell me it ain't a thrill."

“I have," I shot back instantly. “You really need to have people sign a liability waiver."

Duke froze for a split second before his grin doubled. “Liability waiver?"

“Yeah," I smirked, enjoying his surprise. “So you don't end up in court for blowing out someone's back."

He slammed his fist on the table, howling laughter. “Now that'd be a hell of a lawsuit."

“Your Honor," I teased dramatically, “my client seeks damages for spinal realignment caused by unsanctioned deployment of KnotZilla."

“Unsanctioned deployment—holy fuck, Lucy." Duke slammed his fist again, nearly spilling coffee everywhere. “I swear to God, if I ever get that tattooed, it's your fault."

We were both laughing, idiots caught in the absurdity of the moment. Somehow, through jokes and teasing, I'd scooted closer without noticing, thighs brushing. His warmth rippled against me—solid, deliberate, impossible to ignore. My pulse quickened.

Then it happened: Duke reached for the last half of his hot dog at the exact moment I lunged forward for a napkin. Neither of us yielded.

Our faces collided spectacularly—hot dog, mustard, and all.

The bun exploded on impact, sending a spray of diced onions, relish, and cheap condiments cascading in every direction. My muzzle slammed against his, mustard-slicked, hot-dog scented, a catastrophic miscalculation that should have been mortifying.

It wasn't.

Because suddenly, our mouths weren't just crashing together in a messy, condiment-covered disaster—there was something between us, soft, hot, and dripping with juices.

The hot dog.

His lips were parted. So were mine. And in that single, chaotic moment, we weren't just kissing—we were sharing the same damn bite.

The taste of greasy meat, mustard, and something far richer melted on my tongue, the salt, the tang, the heat blurring into Duke's breath as our mouths moved instinctively—first hesitating, then opening wider, then meeting in something dangerously slow and intimate.

A shared bite turned into a shared kiss. A deep, deliberate, filthy kiss.

My tongue grazed his, sliding against the lingering salt of cheap meat and smoky grilled flavor. His tongue responded in kind, licking, coaxing, teasing my lips apart further, and suddenly it wasn't about the damn hot dog at all. It was about taste—the taste of him, the taste of heat pooling low in my stomach, the taste of something raw and unspoken simmering between us.

Duke didn't pull away. He took his bite, deep and slow, his teeth scraping against mine, before drawing back just enough for the moment to snap into sharp, unbearable clarity.

I swallowed first.

Then he did.

His green eyes locked onto mine, his breath still warm from the kiss, tongue darting out just slightly—just enough to catch a stray smear of mustard off his lips.

A deep, primal ache coiled low in my belly, something hot, needy, and utterly indecent.

Because if a hot dog could make me feel like this, what the hell was I going to do when I finally got his cock in my mouth?

“Well," he murmured, voice dripping smug amusement, “if you wanted a taste, all you had to do was ask."

He waggled his eyebrows just as the mustard blob plopped onto the chair between us, sealing our mutual humiliation.

I opened my mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to laugh—but Duke didn't give me the chance. His hand found my waist, pulling me in close, his mouth capturing mine in another kiss that was anything but accidental. My startled gasp melted instantly into a hungry moan, the salty tang of mustard mixing intoxicatingly with the taste of him, obliterating every last ounce of embarrassment. Heat surged between us, tongues tangling in an instant—slow, sensual strokes that made my heart pound and my claws curl reflexively into his shirt.

The laundromat disappeared—nothing existed but Duke's confident mouth, his teasing tongue, his warmth searing through me, obliterating logic and shame. He kissed me deeper, drawing me into him until my breath hitched and my thighs clenched. And for a long, dizzying moment, I forgot everything else—Brandon, guilt, embarrassment—everything but how perfect Duke's lips felt against mine.

I broke the kiss, but I didn't move away—my breathing came in short, desperate bursts, a low growl blooming in my throat as I pushed Duke back into the chair, my tail lashing behind me.

The heat between us felt thick as fog, drowning out the washers and fluorescent hum overhead. I saw tension gripping his body, chest rising fast, pupils wide. He didn't speak—maybe he couldn't.

I licked my lips, tasting the mess of cheap hot dog and him. The swirl of wolf musk, detergent, and lemon cleaner turned into a single dizzying haze. My entire body pulsed with want, my heat pounding in my veins like a drumbeat.

A flicker of reason tried to speak: Public space. Brandon. This is crazy. But it was swallowed by the inferno raging in me.

I kept picturing how Duke's cock had felt earlier—thick, powerful, so unlike Brandon's. The memory made my inner walls clench, heat roiling through me. My heat was a savage, clawing beast inside my core.

“I'm still hungry for wiener," I panted, muzzle curling into a desperate grin, voice thick with need.

He parted his lips like he wanted to speak, but only a ragged breath came out.

That alone spurred me on. This was reckless, borderline insane, but oh God, I needed it. I needed him.

I shifted, knees wedging between his legs, denim rough under my thighs. My pulse throbbed in my ears, my mouth nearly watering.

His scent—raw wolf musk—filled my head, making me dizzy with desire. Every nerve demanded contact, friction, demanded Duke.

A twinge of guilt tried to surface: Brandon. Laundromat. Stupid. But it drowned under the wave of my heat.

I wanted to devour him.

The next words poured out, breathless, heart hammering. “That hot dog was good," I murmured, letting him hear the huskiness in my voice, “but I know yours is better."

I tilted my muzzle near his ear, my breath hot against his fur. He trembled.

If he tried to speak again, I didn't let him. I claimed his mouth in another fierce kiss—teeth, tongue, the taste of him shooting sparks through my nerves. He groaned, claws skittering on my hips like he couldn't decide whether to keep me close or push me away.

I tore free with a gasp, ears flat, gaze flicking to the tent in his jeans. That was what I wanted—what I needed.

Desire seared my veins, overshadowing shame or sense. My thighs clenched, fresh slickness pooling. I couldn't believe this was me—Lucy, once squeamish about anything public—now about to drop to my knees in a dingy laundromat.

But the very idea turned me on more than it terrified me.

I licked my muzzle, voice coming out in a husky murmur. “Duke…"

He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, eyes flicking over my body like he was drowning.

“Lucy…" he managed. “We…we can't—"

I cut him off with a feral grin, pressing my palm right against the bulge in his jeans, feeling how big he was. My breath stuttered at the memory of how he'd swelled in me.

My heat dominated everything. Washers, harsh lights, leftover mustard—none of it mattered now.

All that mattered was this.

The words spilled out, raw, final. “I need to taste you."

And I didn't care who might see.

Duke tried to speak—a protest, warning, or plea—but I silenced him with a nip, teeth grazing his lower lip. He shuddered, hands gripping the seat's edge like he was unsure if he should push me away or yank me in. I wasn't taking no for an answer.

I sank to my knees, claws dragging over his denim, fumbling to rip open his jeans. His breath stuttered, his entire body tensing as I lowered my muzzle, whiskers flaring at that thick, almost wild scent of him.

He was startled, his cock just peeking from its sheath, a red, tapered tip. The sight sent an instinctive pulse of hunger through me. My nose brushed his sheath, inhaling that rich, animal musk.

God, I needed this.

I slipped my tongue beneath the sheath, coaxing him out with slow, wet licks. He jerked, thighs trembling, claws scraping the chair. A ragged groan rumbled from his chest, instincts betraying him before logic could.

“Lucy—wait," Duke panted, eyes wide with sudden panic, his voice strangled by half-hearted protests that neither of us believed. “We—we're in pub—"

I didn't let him finish. My lips closed hungrily around his shaft, cutting his protest off mid-word, sucking him down as deeply as I could manage on the first stroke, savoring the salty tang of his pre-cum as it spilled eagerly across my tongue. He jerked sharply, his entire body going rigid, claws gouging the flimsy plastic seat beneath him, thighs quivering as he struggled to keep still, to endure the relentless way I bobbed my head, drawing him further into my throat with each greedy suck.

“Oh, fuck," Duke hissed between clenched teeth, eyes squeezed shut, muzzle twisting into an expression that hovered somewhere between bliss and desperation. His hips jerked involuntarily, a helpless buck upward, and I rewarded him by sliding my tongue along the sensitive underside of his cock, coaxing another shuddering moan out of him, savoring every ragged breath as proof of my power. I loved the way he trembled under my touch, loved how quickly his cock swelled to full, aching hardness against my tongue, loved the heady musk of him flooding my senses with every frantic, messy lick.

I freed one hand to grip the thick base of his shaft, fingers wrapping tight, stroking firmly from his still-swelling knot up to my waiting lips. I could feel his pulse racing against my palm—wild, primal—and I squeezed just hard enough to draw another guttural sound from deep inside him, watching his composure fracture, piece by delicious piece. My other hand cupped the heavy weight of his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten beneath my practiced touch, knowing he was teetering dangerously close to losing control. I wanted that—wanted him to lose it completely, wanted him to flood my mouth, wanted to taste the evidence of how completely I'd wrecked him.

His claws dug deeper into the chair, body trembling like a leaf as I increased the rhythm of my strokes, matching the tight, relentless suction of my mouth sliding wetly up and down his length. My tongue traced every vein, every ridge, mapping him with obsessive devotion. He was bigger, thicker, hotter than Brandon could ever hope to be—and my pussy clenched around nothing, a fierce ache of need blossoming between my thighs as I imagined how he would feel inside me again, stretching and filling me until I couldn't remember my own name.

“Goddamn it, Lucy—" Duke choked out, hips bucking again despite his best efforts to keep still. The heavy, velvety skin of his knot pressed insistently against my fingers, demanding entry into my mouth, promising an explosion if I dared to take him even deeper. I angled my head, tilted my muzzle, and let him slip all the way to the back of my throat, humming softly in pleasure at the way he filled my mouth so completely, almost too much to handle, making my jaw ache deliciously around him.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, Lucy," he whispered desperately, claws digging deeper, voice cracking into a pleading moan. “I—I can't—"

Exactly what I wanted.

I tightened my grip, fingers massaging his knot in rhythm with the slow, deep slide of my mouth along his shaft, my tongue swirling hungrily around the swollen tip, milking him without mercy. Duke's entire body shook beneath my touch, his breath coming in uneven, ragged pants, and I felt his cock pulse once, twice—a clear, undeniable warning of the impending flood I craved.

“That's it," I murmured hotly, pulling back just enough for him to see my lips glistening wet, saliva mixing with his precum, smirking up at him wickedly before diving right back in. “Give it to me."

I swallowed him down fully this time, letting him feel my throat close tightly around him, encouraging, demanding, claiming every inch. He bucked again, helplessly thrusting deeper into the heat of my mouth, cock pulsing harder with every passing second. The knot swelled further beneath my grasp, thickening rapidly until it strained beneath my fingers, and I knew he was at the edge, trapped between wanting to prolong the pleasure and surrendering completely to me.

“Lucy—I—fuck—!"

He snapped, the growl in his voice feral and ragged as the first surge of his climax hit. My mouth sealed tightly around him, refusing to let even a single drop escape as he spilled hot, thick cum down my throat. I swallowed hungrily, eagerly, drinking every pulsing spurt, savoring the rich, salty taste of him as he trembled helplessly in my grip, hips thrusting weakly with each desperate pulse. I kept sucking, demanding more, unwilling to relent until I'd drawn every last drop from his shuddering body.

When he finally collapsed back into the chair, boneless and gasping, chest heaving, fur matted with sweat, I slowly drew my lips from his softening cock with one last wet, lingering lick. My heart thundered in my ears, my own body trembling with satisfaction and lust, my mouth tingling from the heat of his taste—warm, musky, and addictively good.

When I looked up, he was slack-jawed, panting, drowning in aftershocks. Muzzle parted like he wanted to talk, but no words came.

I did that.

A flicker of pride burst through me. I had reduced this cocky alpha to a trembling ruin. Me, Lucy—the girl who couldn't keep her life together—had left him wrecked.

I bent for a napkin to wipe my own slick from my fingers, but Duke's paw shot out, gripping my wrist in a firm, warm hold.

My breath caught, ears perking in surprise. “Duke—?"

I never finished. Duke moved before I could catch my breath, hauling me around until my back slammed against his chest, locking me in place between the unyielding strength of his thighs. His cock—hard, throbbing, a stark contrast to the half-hearted touches I'd gotten used to with Brandon—pressed insistently against my soaked panties. Every nerve in my body woke up at once, making me forget what guilt even felt like.

One powerful arm wrapped possessively around my waist, pulling me deeper into him. My heart pounded erratically, a shameful thrill racing down my spine. Instinct took over; my body went limp under his hold, surrendering to a dominance I craved but never admitted I needed. This is wrong, some faint voice in my head protested—only to be drowned out by the stronger, undeniable truth: it feels so fucking good.

“Duke—" I tried to speak, voice shaky, but a low, authoritative growl rumbled in his chest and swallowed my protest. His free hand slipped down, hooking beneath my waistband to find my soaked panties and the heat beneath. The second his fingers grazed my slick folds, a sharp, ragged gasp tore from my throat.

“Holy shit—" I choked, my claws digging helplessly into his forearm. I should've pushed him away, but every nerve was lit up with electric hunger. He stroked confidently, parting my fur, teasing until each reflexive twitch of my hips forced me harder into his touch. My panties clung obscenely to my mound, nearly transparent with arousal.

He angled his thick, pulsing shaft against my mound, the heat of him bleeding through the soaked fabric, every slow grind making it cling tighter. With one sharp tug, he wrenched the material taut—not moving it aside, but forcing it to stretch to its absolute limit, biting deep into my hips.

A growl rumbled through his chest as he rolled his hips, the cotton straining under the pressure, every inch of him pressing through the drenched barrier, friction maddeningly perfect. Each teasing thrust made the fragile fabric dig harder, burn hotter, until I could feel the threads protesting, breaking one by one.

He pressed forward, grinding the full length of his cock along my swollen folds. The heat and size of him forced my panties to stretch, fabric groaning between my trembling skin and his shaft. The delicate material threatened to snap under the rough friction, biting into my flesh until pleasure and pain were indistinguishable.

Each deliberate thrust sent lightning-hot jolts of sensation ripping through my body. The head of his cock caught again and again on my throbbing clit, teasing me mercilessly. My thighs shook, my hips lifting of their own accord to chase his every grind, my panting and whimpering fueled by unrelenting frustration and need.

My claws sank deeper into Duke's forearm, ears pinned back, spine arching with every punishing stroke. He held me tighter, overwhelming in his strength, controlling each motion. Each relentless grind pressed the wet, straining fabric harder against me, until I heard threads snapping—little pings of protest—as it slowly unraveled. It bit into my hips with a fierce precision that blurred pain into heady, reckless pleasure.

A strangled moan escaped my lips, my body jerking reflexively. Duke let out a dark, low laugh, clearly savoring how he'd brought me to a panting, pleading mess in the middle of a goddamn laundromat without even slipping inside me.

“You're soaked, Lucy," he growled roughly, muzzle tucked into the crook of my neck, fangs grazing my skin. His tongue flicked possessively over my pulse. “I can feel how bad you want it. You gonna beg for me, sweetheart?"

My pride tried to fight back, but each roll of his hips destroyed my resistance. The panties, stretched to their limits, barely hung onto my trembling hips, tearing more with every thrust. I couldn't get away—didn't even want to. The sopping-wet fabric pinned me open, magnifying every grind, every pulse of his cock tormenting my drenched, swollen pussy.

I hovered on the brink, suspended between humiliation and bliss, pleasure spiraling dangerously close to release but still not enough. I needed more. I needed him to take me completely, to finish what he'd started.

“Please," I whimpered finally, voice ragged, desperation dripping from every syllable as my hips bucked helplessly. “Please, Duke—I need it—please, please, let me feel you cum—"

A possessive growl tore from Duke's throat as his thrusts grew faster, harder. His cock ground brutally tight against my slick folds, forcing the ruined fabric even deeper. Every powerful stroke made the shredded panties bite cruelly into my skin, sending jagged sparks of pleasure and pain mixing until I couldn't tell them apart.

“That's it," he rasped, thick with lust. “Beg for me, Lucy. Beg for every fucking drop."

I didn't hesitate. My claws scraped his fur as I abandoned my last shred of self-control. “Fuck, Duke—please—I need to feel you cum—on me, everywhere—mark me—"

My words shattered whatever was left of his restraint. He snarled, hips bucking wildly, his thick, pulsing cock sliding hotly over my slick pussy. The soaked panties finally gave out with a harsh, wet snap. The sudden release of tension slammed him harder against my mound, and I gasped as burning heat poured from him in long, hot pulses—ropes of cum splattering across my belly, soaking my shredded panties and fur, marking me exactly as I'd begged.

He kept me pinned, body trembling with each wave of his climax, cock still twitching as he painted my skin with his satisfaction. I moaned, grinding shamelessly against him, delirious on how filthy and good it felt.

When his grip eased at last, we sagged against each other, breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts, my ruined panties hanging uselessly around my hips—slick with his cum and my arousal. Duke nuzzled closer, quiet growl vibrating through my neck, sending another illicit shiver along my spine.

“You drive me fucking crazy," he murmured, voice ragged, possessive, and shamelessly smug.

I exhaled shakily, a breathless laugh tumbling out as I pressed back into him, my body still buzzing with unspent desire. “You—" My voice trembled. “You're an asshole."

Duke's hold on my hips tightened, claws grazing my fur as he kept me pinned against his still-throbbing length. “Oh yeah?" he teased, lips dragging along my jaw. “'Cause you sound like you were about to beg for more."

I was.

The words hovered on my tongue, tangled in my needy thoughts. But before I could surrender completely—

BZZZZZT.

The washer's buzzer tore through the silence like a thunderclap, splintering the haze that had held me. I jolted, heart pounding, ears flat against the shrill noise. It felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head, snapping my sanity back into place with brutal efficiency.

Oh fuck.

My breath hitched. My pulse still thundered from Duke's touch, from how close I'd come to begging—how close I'd been to letting him tear away my panties for good.

And now?

Now I was in his lap, my panties shredded, thighs trembling, his cock grinding slow and torturous against me, both of us achingly unsatisfied.

I twisted away, breathless, struggling to pull myself together.

Duke groaned against my ear, his voice thick and low. “Well, that's just cruel timing."

I could hardly speak, my body still betraying me, still wanting him, still craving more. And for the first time, I saw the frustration in his eyes as well. We weren't done.

Not even close.

I pushed upright, away from Duke's hold—chest heaving, limbs shaky, mind whirling. The overhead lights seemed twice as bright; the washers' hum felt a thousand times louder. I could practically hear my own heart pounding in my ears, screaming, What the hell are you doing, Lucy?!

I stood there, panting, cheeks burning with leftover desire and shame. Duke simply watched me, eyes hooded, his cock still straining against his jeans, wet and demanding. For a moment, neither of us moved, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Then reality slammed into me like a tidal wave.

I wrenched my hand back, tugging the skirt that had rucked up around my waist down over my sticky thighs. That buzzer… the fucking laundry… Brandon… what am I doing? My legs trembled, my pussy throbbed with unsatisfied need, and my heart hammered with guilt. Damn it, I thought. If only that buzzer had waited…

I shot the needy-looking wolf a smirk, ignoring how shaky I sounded. “That's my bell," I said. I could still feel the ghost of his hands on me, still taste him in the back of my throat.

Duke exhaled, dragging a paw down his muzzle like he was trying to piece himself back together now that I wasn't glued to him.

I grabbed a plastic bag for my wet clothes, even though my muscles felt like jelly. Duke still looked dazed, ears flicking, brow creased like he couldn't believe I was actually leaving.

“Wait…you're not gonna dry them?" he asked, voice rough with leftover desire.

I paused, hesitating for just a second. Just long enough for my traitorous mind to conjure up an image of us, tangled together in the heat of the moment, his knot swelling inside me as the machine rumbled beneath us. There was no way we'd survive an entire dryer cycle in this laundromat without me ending up knotted on that fat cock of his.

“Nope. Washer's busted at home, but the dryer still works." I shrugged like it didn't matter, cramming my damp clothes into the bag. They felt cold against my skin—a stark contrast to the heat still coiling in my veins.

Duke hummed, gaze drifting over my body. “That so?"

“Someone was supposed to fix it…weeks ago…" I mumbled, trying not to squirm under his eyes.

His ears flicked, that devilish light returning. “I'm pretty handy. Fixed my share of washers. Wouldn't mind stopping by for a quick inspection."

I stiffened, every muscle taut. My tail bristled at the simultaneous rush of dread and anticipation. We both knew exactly what “inspection" meant.

“I—"

Duke lifted his paws like he was surrendering, a lazy, wolfish grin doing nothing to douse the wildfire in my gut. “Strictly professional, of course."

My head spun. This was the dumbest idea—inviting the wolf who'd just had his cock against my throat to come fix my washer. Absolute self-sabotage.

Yet—

My hand was already typing out my address, my eyes watching the screen as if I were witnessing my own downfall in real time. What the fuck am I doing?

“How's tomorrow afternoon?" I asked, my voice somehow steady while my heart clattered in my chest.

Duke smirked, rolling his shoulders like he owned the place. “Fine by me."

Then, without warning, he moved forward—and hugged me.

My whole body short-circuited. Every nerve lit up under the press of his chest, the steady beat of his heart, the thick musk of his fur. I could still taste him on my lips.

My traitorous tail wagged wildly of its own accord. Something knotted in my chest, my pulse ramping far beyond mere lust. This felt bigger, deeper, scarier.

I sucked in a shaky breath, realizing I'd been holding it, and tore myself free before I did something truly reckless—like bury my muzzle in his fur and breathe him in until I forgot everything else.

I snatched up my laundry bag and bolted for the exit, refusing to glance back. My entire body buzzed with a feeling I couldn't name—something dangerously close to hope.

It wasn't until I was halfway home, mind still spinning, that I glanced down—and realized I was still wearing Duke's jacket, the fabric hanging too loose, his scent woven into every oversized fold.

Well, fuck.