Page 39 of His Problem Alpha
“Yes,” I encourage, my own release building, coiling tight in my gut. “Come for me, Devon. Let me see you.”
He does, his body arching, his eyes wide and vulnerable as pleasure overtakes him. Watching him come apart in my arms, I lose control, my own orgasm crashing through me in waves.
I feel my knot beginning to swell, pushing deeper, locking us together in the most intimate way possible. Devon’s breathhitches, a small sob escaping him as he feels it, the undeniable proof of my claim.
“Shhh,” I soothe, gathering him close, my arms wrapping around him. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
We stay like that, locked together, breathing each other’s air. I stroke his back, his hair, murmuring reassurances against his skin. He trembles in my arms, not from cold but from emotion.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, though I’m not sure what I’m reassuring him about. The negative test? The intensity between us? The fact that I’m falling for him so hard I can barely breathe with it?
Eventually, my knot subsides enough for me to slip free. I brace for him to pull away like he usually does after. Instead, he curls against me, his head on my chest, his arm draped across my stomach.
“Stay,” he murmurs, already half-asleep.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
I hold him as his breathing evens out, as his body goes slack with sleep. Only then do I let myself examine the chaos of emotions swirling inside me.
Relief. Disappointment. Fear. Hope. All tangled together in a knot I can’t unravel.
The negative test sits on the bathroom counter, a reprieve we both needed but neither of us seems entirely happy about. It was just a scare. We’re being careful. It’s just physical.
The lies slide easily between us as we lay tangled in my sheets, the phantom grief of a life we hadn’t made still clinging to the air. But as I smooth my thumb over the fresh, faint bite mark on Devon’s shoulder, a mark I’d left without thinking, I know we’re both lying. And I have no idea how to stop.
Devon
“For a guy who can’t be bothered to rinse a dish, you’re surprisingly territorial about who buys the coffee.”
Alex looks up from the French press, his hands pausing mid-grind. The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a smile or a scowl—with him, it’s always a fifty-fifty shot. “There’s a system to coffee. You can’t just buy whatever’s on sale.”
“A system,” I echo, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. “Is that what we’re calling your pretentious coffee snobbery now?”
He turns back to the grinder. “Says the guy who once lectured me for forty-five minutes about the difference between serif and sans-serif fonts.”
“That’s different. That’s my job.”
“And this,” he says, gesturing to the beans, “is keeping us both alive.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no heat in it. This is us now—the easy banter, the domestic rhythm we’ve fallen into since thepregnancy scare last week. The rules we set are a fucking joke. No sleeping over? I haven’t slept in my own bed in days. No scent marking? He does it constantly, absently, like he doesn’t even realize—a brush of his wrist against my neck when he passes me in the hallway, his nose in my hair when we wake up tangled in his sheets.
I should be running for the hills. My heart is racing, but not with fear—with something worse. Hope. And that terrifies me more than anything.
I watch him from the doorway, taking in every detail like I’m trying to memorize him. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling at the edges. He’s wearing a faded Radiohead t-shirt and gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. His feet are bare. There’s a small, silvery scar on his left ankle I’ve never noticed before.
He moves through the kitchen with an easy confidence, reaching for mugs without looking, his body relaxed in a way it never is around other people. This is Alex in his natural habitat—focused, methodical, at peace.
I should say something snarky and back away. That would be the smart thing to do. Protect myself before this gets any deeper.
Instead, I cross the kitchen and slide my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my face between his shoulder blades. He smells like soap and coffee and sleep-warm skin. He stiffens for a fraction of a second—he always does, like affection is a language he’s still learning—before relaxing into my touch, a soft sigh escaping him.
“What’s this for?” he asks, his voice a low rumble I feel through his back.
“Nothing,” I mumble into his shirt. “Just... coffee gratitude.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through both of us. His hand comes up to cover mine where it rests on his stomach. “You’re welcome.”
We stay like that for a moment, my cheek pressed against his back, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my wrist. The morning sun slants through the kitchen window, painting everything in soft gold. The coffee grinder whirs. A car honks outside. It’s so normal, so stupidly domestic, that my chest actually aches. When did this become what I wanted?
