He fingers me hard and fast, knuckles glancing my gland and making me see double. Furious, dense pleasure gathers quickly, swelling until my jaw hangs ajar and my eyes are screwed shut. Until there’s a slick, clicking sound when he thrusts into me, and the coarse grating saw of an alpha panting behind me.
I’m close.
So close.
So, so close.
Then he pulls out.
My knees sag, and I wail into the wall, fingernails clawing at plaster as I garble nonsensically in the safety of the cage created for me by my own limbs.
The lord moves quickly, jamming his thumb up my ass, a thick, blunt intrusion that he pairs with fingertips stroking my taint lightly. He rubs me inside and out. Softly and raw. Attacking my gland from all angles.
Pleasure swells and expands, growing until it can’t be contained. His ministrations are so forceful, so exacting, so precise, that the force of my orgasm stuns me. It hits from behind, splattering pieces of me against the wall as my hips thrust manically into nothing.
It’s over as suddenly as it started. The lord extracts his thumb from my anus without fanfare. I flop limply against the wall briefly before turning and leaning against it as I scramble to pull up my pants. It’s a simple action that’s made unnecessarily complicated by the fact that my hands are completely numb and I can’t remember how zippers or buttons work.
The lord has the audacity to look calm, removed, and mildly pleased with himself.
“Is there anything else you need, Mr. Lawlor?” he asks affably. “Cup of tea, perhaps?”
I shake my head and narrowly manage to stifle the dry, gargling sound trying to rush out of me.
17
Jensen
Ofalltheidioticdecisions I’ve made in my life, thinking it would be a good idea to allow Lord Augustus to finger-bang me senseless is so high at the top of that list, it occupies an entire page of its own.
I didn’t sleep well last night, but I feel that goes without saying. Post-nut clarity hit with chilling lucidity once the lord left. I spent hours awake, tossing and turning, desperate to talk to someone about how stupid I’ve been. I haven’t told Lucien about the lord being a Casanova alpha, and obviously, I haven’t told him about the fake dating because I know he’ll tell Branson. I know Branson well enough to know that both of those admissions are exactly the kinds of things he’d be inclined to tell our mother about, and that’s the last thing I need, believe me. So, of course, without Lucien knowing about the fake dating, there’s no way I can casually segue the conversation to land on me being chased through the maze by my employer. And thus,there’s absolutely no way I could drop the finger-banging into one of our chats.
Not that I’d want to tell him about it per se, but I do want to talk to someone about it, and in the past, he’s always been that person.
Eventually, at five a.m. this morning, I sit up in bed and message Lucien about something that’s probably completely inane but feels highly relevant.
The lord’s favorite book isThe Story of Ferdinand.
Three dots appear and disappear on my screen, replaced by an incoming call from Lucien. Branson must have snatched his phone from him and placed a call from it because his face fills my screen completely when I swipe to answer. The angle Branson presents me with is a little more up-the-nostril than I’d recommend if he were trying to look his best, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“Jensen!” he says with such determination that I suspect he might be trying to alpha me through the line. “You are beingseduced. Leave England and come home at once!”
Thankfully, it’s impossible to alpha someone over the phone, so his attempt has no effect other than to thoroughly irritate me.
“Jens,” Lucien croons, taking the phone from Branson and smiling at me as if I’m suffering from a concussion. “You know how Wilder and Christian are backpacking through Portugal at the moment?”
I nod, unimpressed. I can tell exactly where the conversation is headed.
“Well, Branson and I have been thinking it might be super fun if they popped over to see you. It’s a quick flight to where you are, and it’s not all that expensive. We’d be happy to pay for them. We just think it might be nice for you to see someone fromhome, you know? Just catch up and touch base. What do you think?”
“I’m a grown man with a fully developed prefrontal cortex,” I tell him firmly. “I don’t need to be checked up on. And if I did, I definitely wouldn’t need to be checked up on by the likes of Wilder or Christian. My God. Did you see the last TikTok Christian posted? He was dancing on a bar, and Wilder was drinking alcohol out of a shoe. I’m not being funny, but I willnottolerate those two checking up on me just because they’re alphas. You of all people should know that about me, Lucien.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Lucien says solemnly.
“That’s not what he meant at all, Jens,” Branson confirms, annoying the hell out of me. “We’re just worried about you, that’s all.”
I hang up after that because I’m a little worried that their worrying about me will go to my head, and I’ll accidentally confess to a series of sins that will definitely end with Wilder and Christian turning up at Beaumont Craven House with or without my consent.
I finally fall asleep and wake a while later with a headache from hell and a revolting taste in my mouth. The sun is up, dancing in dappled dots around my room, making me feel vaguely nauseous. The hangover—which I richly deserve—isn’t even close to being the worst thing about today.
