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God, when would Jon get over this bullshit? Wasn’t he getting too old for ruts?
Jonathan Mazur sat behind the grand oak desk in his meticulously organized office. The heavy curtains were drawn, blocking out the light of the midday sun, casting the room in a dim, almost predatory ambiance. It was a day like any other, with the exception of the gnawing, primal urge clawing its way through his disciplined exterior—a surge of instinctual need that knew neither patience nor mercy.
He hated feeling like this - bad temper, body aches, and a raging fucking hard on every time he even *thought* about you.
“Fuck me,” Jon hissed through gritted teeth.
Jonathan had opted to stay home today, working in his private office across the hall from the bedroom. He had shut the office door in an attempt to have some privacy, along with shutting the heavy curtains to block out any light. He was trying to go through emails, responding to the things he *could* do while he was away for the next 3-5 days, but his concentration was… lacking.
Jonathan reached up, running his hand through his hair. He leaned back in his chair as he let out a heavy sigh. He was trying to ignore the aching in his boxers. As the CEO of Pawlak Enterprises and the Alpha of the Mazur Werewolf Pack, Jonathan prided himself on unwavering control and an iron will, but the rut was a formidable adversary, a time when that damned wolf within him strained against the confines of his human flesh, demanding release, demanding his mate.
His fingers tapped a staccato rhythm on the solid wood, the slicked-back salt and pepper hair unable to hide the tension in his furrowed brow. Each keystroke on the laptop was deliberate, a conscious effort to focus on the quarterly reports and contract negotiations instead of the tantalizing scent that lingered on the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt—the sweet, intoxicating fragrance of his beloved mate.
He took a deep breath, the air filled with the subtle, underlying musk of his own growing frustration. His nostrils flared slightly as he tried to concentrate, but the memory of you’s soft curves and the warmth of their skin against his was an unrelenting tide, threatening to sweep away the remnants of his composure. He could feel his cock throbbing in his boxers, and his hand moved to palm the hardening tent.
*you... I wish it was their hand instead.*
The laptop screen became a blur as his vision started to swim, the words mingling into an indecipherable mass of letters. A growl rumbled deep within his chest, a sound barely contained by the walls of his office. The wolf within was close to the surface now, craving the intimate touch of his mate, craving to claim them in the most primal way.
He stood abruptly, letting out a snarl as the chair scraped against the floor with a curt noise that echoed through the silence. Jon’s hand reached for the glass of bourbon he kept on the desk, the liquid a temporary balm to soothe the raging fire within, but even as the amber fluid burned its way down his throat, he knew it was a futile attempt.
Prowling around the room with a restlessness that was unfamiliar to his usual stoic demeanor, Jonathan fought the urge to smash something, to let out the frustration in a fit of feral destruction. It was becoming unbearable, the need for you, the need to bury himself deep within the soft heat of their body, to feel them quivering around him as he marked them, bred them, made them his over and over again. The notion of waiting, of delaying the inevitable, was starting to seem nonsensical, foolish even, as every cell in his body screamed for release.
Jon stopped at his desk, his hands gripping the edge of the wooden furniture in desperation. He *could* just go find you... they were his mate. He had spent countless hours inside them, on top of them, making their body writhe and mewl in desperation as they begged for his knot.
Jon felt his cock twitch again and he bared his teeth in a frustrated snarl. **FUCK.**
With a low, guttural growl, he loosened his silk tie and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the thick mat of hair on his chest and the glint of the gold wolf ring on his finger. His thoughts were consumed by you, his bonded mate, the one who could quell the fire that burned within him. Jonathan's nostrils flared as he imagined their scent, their touch, their sounds.
As Jonathan sat in his chair again, his large, calloused hand slipped beneath the waistband of his tailored trousers, freeing his already engorged member. A shiver of pleasure coursed through him as he wrapped his fingers around his thick, veiny cock. Pre-cum glistened at the tip, a testament to his unrestrained desire. Each stroke was deliberate, firm, as he conjured the image of you's lithe body beneath him.
As his hand worked his shaft, he imagined plunging into her wetness, the way they would clench around him, warm and welcoming. The thought of their soft moans and the sharp gasps as he drove into them relentlessly. Jonathan's breaths grew ragged, his baritone growls filling the room as he pumped his cock harder, faster. He could almost feel the tightness of you’s holes gripping him.
*Just go to them,* he thought. *They want you too.*
But Jonathan stayed in his seat. you was still asleep, surely. He didn't want to disturb them.
Leaning back in his chair, he threw his head back, the salt and pepper strands of his hair becoming disheveled. His other hand clawed at the armrest, his werewolf strength threatening to tear the leather as he chased his climax. The fantasy of you writhing beneath him, their nails digging into his back, their legs wrapped around his waist, their cries of ecstasy as he filled them with his seed—it was all too much.
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