Page 27 of His Problem Alpha
I gasp, my head falling back as pleasure spikes through me. "I hate that I do," I admit, the words torn from me. "I hate how much I need this. Need you."
He withdraws his fingers, replacing them with the blunt head of his cock. The first push inside is a shock of pleasure-pain that makes me cry out. He's big, stretching me in ways that border on too much, but my body remembers him. Wants him. The shock of fullness is almost too much, a burning, stretching sensation that silences the angry buzz in my head.
"Fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. "You feel so good. So tight. So perfect for me."
The praise hits me like a physical blow, making me clench around him. He notices, because of course he does. His eyes narrow, a knowing smile curving his mouth.
"You still like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his hips starting a slow, devastating rhythm. "Being told how good you are. How perfect you feel wrapped around my cock."
"Shut up," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Just—harder. Please."
He obliges, his hips snapping forward with enough force to rattle the dishes in the cabinet behind us. The rhythm is brutal, punishing, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside me—my prostate—that makes stars burst behind my eyes. There’s no thought, no witty comeback, just pure sensation. The sound of our bodies slapping together echoes in the small kitchen, a wet, percussive beat against the hum of the fridge. I can smell the forgotten coffee brewing on the machine, a bitter scent under the musky aroma of our sex.
I'm making sounds I didn't know I could make—high, desperate whines that would mortify me if I had any capacity for shame left.
"That's it," he growls, his hand sliding from my throat to cup my jaw. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel."
I'm close already, embarrassingly so. It's been a week of torture, a week of phantom sensations and unsatisfied need. My body is wound tight, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
"Alex," I gasp, my voice breaking on his name. "I'm going to—"
"Not yet," he commands, his thumb pressing against my lower lip. "Look at me first. I want to see your face when you come."
I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze. What I see there knocks the breath from my lungs. There's heat, yes, and lust, but something else too—something raw and vulnerable that makes my chest ache.
"Now," he says, his voice softening. "Come for me, Devon. Show me."
His hand wraps around my cock, stroking once, twice, and I'm gone. My orgasm tears through me with such force that my vision whites out. I cry out his name, my nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood. I can't stop myself.
He follows a moment later, his head thrown back, a guttural sound ripped from his throat as he pulses inside me. The sensation of being filled triggers another smaller aftershock that leaves me trembling and gasping.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. We're locked together—not just our bodies, but something deeper I can't face right now. Alex's weight presses me into the counter, his breath hot and ragged against my neck. The air is thick with sex and sweat and something new—something that feels dangerously like hope.
"Devon," he finally murmurs, his voice rough. "I—"
"Don't," I cut him off, pressing my fingers to his lips. "Don't say it was a mistake. Don't say it was just biology. Not again."
He pulls back enough to meet my eyes, his expression unguarded in a way I've never seen before. "I wasn't going to say that."
"What were you going to say?"
He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. "That I've been losing my mind this week. That I can't stop thinking about you. That I'm terrified of what that means."
The admission hangs in the air between us, raw and honest and terrifying. I should say something witty, something that puts distance between us. But for once in my life, I don't have a comeback.
Instead, I lean forward and press my forehead to his, breathing him in.
Alex
"So we're clear," I say, my voice a low rasp, scraped raw from the inside out. "This isn't... that."
Devon is still on the kitchen counter, legs dangling. My hands left his hair a mess, and my mouth left marks on his neck that are already starting to bloom. His eyes are guarded, the vulnerability from moments ago locked away.
"That?" he asks, one eyebrow arching. The sarcasm is back, his armor sliding into place. "You'll have to be more specific, Matthews."
I run a hand through my hair, trying to pull my scattered thoughts together. "A relationship. This isn't... that."
"Right." He slides off the counter, wincing as his feet hit the floor. Seeing him wince sends a possessive thrill through me. I try to smother it immediately. "Because we hate each other."
