Page 20 of Fighting the Alpha

“Good boy.” I lean down to kiss the corner of his slack mouth, not missing the shudder that ripples through him at the endearment.

And then I slick us both up swiftly, keeping his arms pinned as I push inside him and try not to lose my mind at the tight, enveloping heat of his ass like I nearly do every time we do this. We’re so close with him on his back like this, his thick legs hooked around me and our chests nearly touching, that I can see every twitch of his eyebrows and every little shiver of pleasure as I rut into him. I can kiss him whenever I want, greedy and high on the docile way he kisses me back.

I don’t let go of his hands, letting the steady thrust of my cock and the friction of our abs against his throbbing length, trapped between us, drive him to the edge. When I dip my head down to trail my sharp teeth along his scent gland just like he did to me, he comes in hot stripes across his chest. I’m not far behind, groaning in awe as warmth spreads through every nerve ending and I spill inside his eager body.

It’s early evening by the time we manage to get round to making coffee, and I don’t think there’s a part of Dylan’s body I haven’t traced with my tongue. My refractory period issignificantly less impressive than his, considering the torrent of hormones flooding his bloodstream, so we’ve had to get creative. It’s been… enlightening. Feral. Fucking mind-blowing.

His rut has been relentless, and my arm is littered with bite marks from some of the more intense sessions, the sting of the wounds a satisfying reminder of what I’ve been able to do for him over the last day and a half. But something is starting to shift: his rut scent has been losing potency for a couple of hours now, the all-consuming heat of it burning out as it starts to break, the ferocious energy between us is settling into something gentler along with it.

It’s unusual, for me. I don’t hate it.

“This coffee is really good,” Dylan says, frowning into his mug. He’s sitting on his sofa in his underwear, his huge limbs stretched across the brown fabric so I have to forcibly push his leg aside to sit next to him.

“Why do you look angry about it?”

“Because you assumed I’d have bad coffee in my apartment.”

“And I was right.”

Dylan makes a disgruntled sound, but takes another small sip of the scalding coffee, letting his eyes close.

“I feel totally wrung out,” he says, leaning back into the cushions like he’s feeling the exhaustion of the last two days crashing down on him. I feel it too, the ache settling into my muscles as the adrenaline finally starts to fade.

“I do not know what this means,” I say bluntly, trying to translate the words in my head and coming up empty. I pull one of his huge legs over mine so I can stretch out more easily on the sofa.

“It means I’m tired,” he says, closing his eyes. “Totally wiped out.” His stomach audibly rumbles. “Fucking hungry.”

I smile, holding up one finger and easing off the sofa. Dylan watches me walk to the kitchen without saying another word,opening the fridge and trying three different drawers before I find one containing cutlery, which is predictably well-organized.

“I told you you would thank me later,” I say when I return a few minutes later, carrying the cheesecake he grumbled about when I arrived, and two forks. You’d think I was presenting him with a world championship belt, he looks so deliriously happy, and I can’t keep the grin off my face.

I sit back on the sofa heavily as he hauls himself upright and reaches for one of the forks eagerly, scooching close enough that our thighs press together. “You magnificent bastard,” he mutters.

I watch him take a huge forkful, my grin widening when he groans as creamy sweetness hits his tongue. I know from experience how good that first bite feels: it’s like a shot of straight energy to a rut-beaten body.

“I always have cheesecake after my rut,” I explain, taking a forkful of my own but getting too distracted by watching Dylan stuff his face to actually eat it. “It is like magic.”

“Doesn’t seem very French,” he says between bites.

I laugh loudly. “I cannot like things that are not French? Do you think I live in a house made of garlic and only eat baguettes?”

“Maybe,” he says, smiling. “You do wear stripes quite a lot.”

“God forbid a French man look good in stripes without being a cliché.” I shake my head, finally eating my forkful of cheesecake, quietly pleased that Dylan has ever taken any notice of the clothes I wear.

Dylan swallows another bite. “Max would be happy to see me eating this. He’s been giving me a hard time about my diet being too strict for months now.”

I let out a sharp, bitter huff, the sweetness of the cake turning a bit sour on my tongue. “My trainers would have me eating only beef and rice if they had their way. No joy. They only careif the sponsors are happy and if I make weight. To them, I am a machine that speaks French.”

Dylan frowns, turning his head to look at me fully. “You’ve mentioned that before. That you’re unhappy with them.” He shifts his weight, his thigh pressing more firmly against mine. “You know, if it’s really that bad, you could always leave. Find a place that actually treats you like a person.”

I look at him curiously, a faint, incredulous smile touching my lips. “And go where? Most elite gyms are exactly the same, Dylan.”

“Not all of them,” Dylan says quietly, his serious eyes holding mine steadily. “The Foundry is different. It’s... open-minded. Even if Marcus looks like a disgruntled bear half the time. We take care of our own. You could train there.” He shrugs, a slightly bashful touch of pink creeping up his neck. “I wouldn’t mind having you around. Sparring with you a few times a week would keep my game up, that’s for sure.”

My heart gives a strange, uneven thud against my ribcage. The thought of sparring with Dylan as gym-mates makes something warm and unfamiliar fizz in my chest, and when I speak, my voice has lost all of its usual, mocking edge. “You would want that?”

Dylan pushes his fork around, tracing a pattern in the crumbs. “I think so. I’ve never… I kind of don’t want to wait another year for us to have an excuse to do this again.”