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Preview from chapter one
My Coworker's Monster Knot
werewolf coworker knots eager office mate
I’ve never told anyone this—not my sister, not my therapist, not even the half-empty bottle of wine that usually gets the truth out of me—but I’ve been dripping for my coworker Marcus for months. My name’s Lena. Twenty-eight. Junior accounts coordinator at a mid-size marketing firm downtown, the kind of place where the fluorescent lights hum like they’re bored of us and the break-room coffee tastes like regret. I’m the girl who stays late because my studio apartment feels emptier than the office after six, and because Marcus stays late too.
He’s quiet. Not shy exactly—more like he chooses every word the way some men choose their grip. Tall, broad through the shoulders, the kind of muscle that looks earned instead of purchased. Dark hair always a little too long at the collar, jaw shadowed by five-o’clock whatever even at nine in the morning. He wears button-downs that strain across his chest when he reaches for the top shelf of the supply closet, and slacks that somehow never quite hide the heavy shape of him. I noticed that shape the first week. I noticed it every week after.
I didn’t know then what he was. I only knew that whenever the office emptied out and it was just the two of us under those cheap ceiling panels, something electric crawled under my skin. He’d pass behind my desk to grab a file and I’d catch the faint scent of him—pine and something wilder, like rain on hot asphalt—and my thighs would press together without permission. He’d glance down at me, those amber-flecked eyes lingering a second too long on my mouth, and I’d feel my nipples tighten against the lace of my bra like they were trying to punch through.
Last Thursday the full moon was three nights out. I felt it before I understood it. The air in the office got thicker. Marcus moved like his clothes hurt. He kept shifting in his chair, rolling his shoulders, jaw flexing. I watched him from my cubicle over the top of my monitor, pretending to update a spreadsheet while my cunt grew slick and swollen just from the sight of him. He’d stand, stretch, and the front of his trousers would tent obscenely for a second before he adjusted himself with a rough, almost angry hand. The outline was impossible—thick, long, and at the base something wider, a heavy flare that made my mouth water and my pulse hammer between my legs.