Feral

Jules nearly whined, his mouth searching blindly, needing. It was pure bliss as his lips rubbed against Westcliff’s firm jaw, the alpha’s scent so thick in the air he felt high on it.

“Sweetheart,” Westcliff said hoarsely, nuzzling his cheek. “Baby. I fucking adore you, you know that, right?”

Devlin frowned. Nasr wasn’t the sort of man Julian should be smiling at that way.

Noticing the strange expression on the duke’s face, Jules said, “What?”

“You should smile more,” Westcliff said, his expression still odd. “You’re kind of pretty when you smile.”

Jules hated the heat that spread to his cheeks. “Wow, kind of pretty? I’m so flattered. Are you this smooth with Liam, too?”

His mouth was rather small, not full like Liam’s, and yet it was the one Devlin wanted to kiss, again and again and again. Looking at Liam’s plump lips did nothing for him, but watching Julian’s small, mobile mouth made him imagine kissing it for hours before feeding it his cock—

When the silence stretched, Liam coughed pointedly, clearly scandalized by Jules’s rude silence.

Jules sighed. “Your Grace,” he said, without looking up.

“I see you’re still sulking over what I said.”

Sulking?

“I’m not a child,” Jules bit out. “I do not sulk. Your Grace.”

“You do, or you wouldn’t be Your Grace-ing me.”

When the silence stretched, Liam coughed pointedly, clearly scandalized by Jules’s rude silence.

Jules sighed. “Your Grace,” he said, without looking up.

“I see you’re still sulking over what I said.”

Sulking?

“I’m not a child,” Jules bit out. “I do not sulk. Your Grace.”

“You do, or you wouldn’t be Your Grace-ing me.”

“I thought that’s how one addressed a duke. Though I hear we’ll be calling you Your Highness soon. Out of curiosity, how does it feel to steal your cousin’s crown?”