Page 13 of Fighting the Alpha

Heat sparks through me at the thought. “I would like that very much. But no, not today.”

I line myself up with his entrance, figuring that having him on his back is as good a position as any, especially when I lean my weight against him and I get to watch the way his lips drop open and his eyes glaze over when I slip inside.

“Fucking beautiful,” I murmur in French, the words spilling out before I realize what I’m saying. I bracket his head with my arms as Dylan hooks his legs around me, pulling me into him. I can’t stop myself from kissing him again as the tight, burning friction of his ass wraps around my cock, taking my breath away.

“God,” Dylan groans against my lips, burying his fingers in my hair. “God.Move, Levi, shit.”

“So demanding,” I huff, but I give him exactly what he wants, drawing back and punching my hips forward again, drawing a deep moan from his throat. His cock is hot and hard between us, huge and neglected against our stomachs as I begin to fuck him in earnest, feeling his precum smear between us.

My lips find his scent gland, and I’m in awe of the way he defers to me, his ass taking me like he was made for it and his neck bared to me like I’m his lover, even as his distinctly alpha scent thickens in my nostrils. The contrast of it drives me wild,heat coiling tighter and tighter in my core as I pick up the pace and Dylan whines brokenly in my ear.

The room is filled with the wet, obscene sounds of our skin colliding and our stuttered groans. I pull back only so I can look at Dylan, a huge mass of rippling muscle and alpha submission laid out beneath me, his cheeks pink and his face twisted in that unique mixture of pleasure and pain that I know from experience only comes with being taken by another alpha.

I take his cock in my hand, stroking him in time with my thrusts. “Are you going to be a good boy and come for me?” I rasp.

And damn, he likes that. I can see it written across his features, the embarrassment as plain as the arousal, his scent spiking heavily. “I’m close,” he chokes out.

“So fucking good for me, uh? So tight and perfect. Like you were made for it.”

“Oh, fuck,” he stutters. “Yes—ah—there, Levi—”

His cock stiffens in my hand, and I slam my hips into his, angling them until he’s gasping and shivering underneath me, his nails leaving welts in my back. And when he tips over the edge, his heavy balls emptying in thick ropes onto his taut, clenching, sweat slick stomach, I fuck him through it.

And it’s only when I’m sure he’s completely spent, his legs going limp around my waist and every last drop of pleasure milked out of him, that I let myself come. My orgasm rips through me, a violent wave that forces my hips to still as I bury myself deep inside him, his thumbs rubbing smooth circles into the nape of my neck as I come apart.

When my heart rate starts to calm, Dylan drags me back to his lips before I can pull away. And this feels like it’s a long, long way from our original wager. A long way from two amped up kids who hated each other’s guts.

And I’m not sure I know what to make of that.

We stay locked together until my phone buzzes on the nightstand, the vibration disturbingly loud in the near-silent hotel room. I groan, going to turn it off but catching the name on the screen first.

Mamon.

Shit. It’s 1am, which means it’s 9am back home. I always call her after a fight, and I’m already a couple of hours late.

“Take it,” Dylan says, his voice hoarse. “I should clean up.”

I answer the call as Dylan gets out of bed, stretching.

“Hi, mamon,” I say in French, watching him pad to the bathroom and trying to shove the impure thoughts out of my mind.

I let her know I lost the fight, although it turns out she already knows—by this point she has all the sports websites that cover mid-tier boxing saved as bookmarks on her laptop. I let her know I’m fine, just a bruised cheekbone and a bruised ego. She tells me about the runner beans she’s trying to grow in her allotment, and a long winded story about someone she insists I went to school with, although I have absolutely no memory of them. I end the call feeling like my brain has been reset, like I always do.

At some point, Dylan climbs back in beside me, scrolling idly on his phone, although when I hang up the call a few minutes later, his screen is blank and his breathing is deep and even. I nudge him gently before he drops it on his face.

His eyes flutter open. “Oh. Sorry,” he says, throwing his phone down.

“It’s fine,” I say in French, my brain still stuck on my mother tongue, before repeating it in English. I hold up my phone. “That was my mother, sorry.”

“Your mom’s awake at—” he squints at the clock. “1:30am?”

“It is not 1:30am in France,bête.I call her after all my fights, or she worries.” I’m not entirely sure why I tell him that.

“That’s sweet,” he says, rubbing at his eyes.

“What, you do not talk to your mother?” I say.

Dylan shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching down. “Not really. Sometimes on her birthday, or Christmas. We’re not close.”