Page 12 of Nursing the Alpha
I stood there for a second longer, clutching my book bag to my chest like it could hold back the ache building there.
5
SETH
Flynn was nothing if not consistent.
6:30 a.m. sharp.
Like clockwork, his door eased open on a whisper of hinges. He stepped out onto the quiet street, tugging his sweatshirt down over his hips, the morning chill turning his breath to fog.
I watched from the shadowed edge of a side street as he stretched, one arm across his chest, then the other, the faintest wince tugging at his mouth as his pecs shifted under the fabric.
I bet his beautiful tits were flat this time of the morning.
A week ago, standing across the street, staring at his apartment window, I’d watched Flynn, hair mussed from sleep, sitting at the window in nothing but boxers. Pump attached to his chest. His expression soft, almost serene, as milk dribbled steadily into the bottle.
It hadn’t been for me, but my body had reacted all the same.
For the first time in my life, I’d masturbated in public,jacked myself off like a horny teenager who just discovered how good his penis could make him feel.
Now I practically felt the weight that wasn’t there, the tender fullness he’d drained before heading out, and it made something primal stir low in my belly. I wanted to be the one to drain him of his milk. Not some lifeless pump.
Flynn started running.
I followed.
Not close enough for him to notice but enough to match his pace, every step measured, silent on the wet pavement.
The world was hushed this early. Hardly any cars, no chatter, only the steady thud of Flynn’s sneakers against the sidewalk and the faint jingle of his house key in his pocket.
Even from here, I caught the small details.
The way his curls bounced with each stride. How his breath misted the air in sharp, shallow bursts, sweetened by the citrus shampoo he favored. The faint curve of his ass in those fitted jogging pants, flexing with each push off the pavement.
Every movement was burned into me.
I knew the route he’d take. He always did the same loop through the park before heading home. I knew how his pace would falter on the uphill, his chest heaving harder, sweat darkening the fabric between his shoulder blades.
I’d watched enough times to know.
And still, I never tired of seeing him.
Flynn moved like he had no idea how visible he was. No idea how the early light caught on his flushed cheeks, how the faint sheen of sweat made him glow.
How easy it would be for someone bigger, faster, to catch him.
Someone like me. How much fight would he put up?
A small sound left my throat—half groan, half growl—and I swallowed it down hard, clenching my fists in my pockets.
He turned into the park just as I knew he would, his pace steady but slower now, his breath coming harder. The trail curved, leading to a stretch of narrow woods where the morning sun barely filtered through the branches.
This part was always quiet. Too quiet.
Didn’t he know omegas like him shouldn’t be taking this path alone? Or did he secretly take it, hoping that he would meet someone one day?
I followed, steps soundless on the damp leaves, every nerve strung tight.
