Page 4 of Fighting the Alpha

But he didn’t move. His fingers clawed against the lockers, but they stayed there. His huge chest was heaving, the flush that had suddenly appeared on his cheeks traveling all theway down beneath the neck of his sweat-stained tank. His face was unreadable, some clash of emotions warring behind his chestnut eyes.

“You’re a sick bastard, Bastien,” he said eventually, but he didn’t step away.

“And you are a man of your word, non?” Baiting him was too easy. Too fun. But the sudden shift in the air felt like something beyond fun, the excitement pulsing through my veins morphing into heat as the possibility that Dylan was going to take this seriously became a reality. That maybe I wanted him to.

Slowly, his jaw set, he moved his hands away from the locker. I felt like every hair on my body was standing on end, goosebumps spreading across my back like wildfire.

My cock twitched violently when his hand ghosted over the front of my loose shorts, the cocky smirk melting off my face as the sobering reality of his touch washed over me. I swallowed thickly when I glanced back up from his hand to find him looking at me intensely, his head tipped in a silent challenge: are you going to back down now, Bastien?

But I didn’t back down when his hand curled around my length through the thin fabric of my shorts, and I didn’t back down a few seconds later when he slipped it beneath my waistband and gripped me for real, his calloused hands making direct contact with the hot, throbbing hardness of my shaft.

I bit back a curse, not wanting to shatter the silence in case it snapped Dylan out of whatever madness had gripped us both. A hot shiver rolled down my spine as he began to stroke me, his palm rough and his fist tight as he pushed himself off the lockers to lean into me.

My thighs went weak as I rested one hand against the lockers beside Dylan’s head, pleasure pulsing through me withevery twist of his fist. I realized that my scent was hanging in the air even more thickly than his now, and our faces were so close I could feel every one of his ragged breaths against my neck.

How was his alpha not tearing me apart? How was he keeping it together? The only reason I’d not turned absolutely feral was because of the stunning show of submission unfolding beneath my waistband.

His thumb swiped through the precum leaking out of my tip, smearing it down my overheated length in strokes that were rapidly picking up speed. Dylan’s gaze was dark and focused, his jaw still tight where mine had slackened, but his scent had lost its competitive edge, the bitterness edged out by the unmistakable richness of his arousal. When I looked down to watch the movement of his hand in my shorts, his knuckles pressing into the taut skin of my lower abdomen, my eyes fell on the bulge in the front of his.

“Putain,” I hissed, unable to hold the word back as my balls tightened, heat building in my core and threatening to explode under the relentless slide of his palm.

“Is this what you wanted, Bastien?” Dylan whispered against my ear, but if he meant it to sound like a taunt, it didn’t work. He sounded breathless and almost reverent, his voice breaking on a note of something dangerously close to desperation. And that’s what sent me over the edge.

“Yes—ah—”

My eyes squeezed shut as pleasure swelled outwards from the hot press of his hand, washing over me in shivering waves until I choked out a moan, knocking my forehead against his weakly. The overwhelming alpha scent filling my nostrils only made me come harder, his submission sending a primal thrill through me as my release spurted over his hand

He didn’t stop until I was trembling from the overstimulation, pushing him away.

He withdrew his hand, using my tank to wipe my cum off his fingers, his face glistening with sweat and his lips plump and shining, and fuck—

My hips twitch into my fist, and I push the sheets off myself just before the first rope of cum shoots onto my stomach. I groan, shuddering, as my orgasm hits me. And it’s good, sure, but it’s not as good as that night six years ago.

The night that led me to start exploring if maybe there was more to sex than omegas—turned out there was, and turns out I’m more than happy to indulge in every flavor of dynamic and gender that’s open to me. But I’ve always been chasing the high of being jerked off in a scummy school locker room by Dylan Long, and so far, no one has even come close.

—

The heavy bass of Dylan’s walk-on music vibrates through the carpeted floors of the venue and all the way to my chest, the familiar churn of excitement, anticipation and nervous energy swirling in my gut as I watch the curtain swing open from my shadowed position backstage.

The local crowd erupts as he appears, stepping into the glaring overhead lights and walking towards the ring without any of the bouncing theatrics a lot of fighters use to play up their confidence and mask their nerves. No, Dylan walks slowly, deliberately, letting his massive size and muscle mass, impressive even hidden by his robe, do the talking for him. Even from fifty yards away, I can feel the weight of his presence in the room.

But I don’t focus on that. I focus on the image of his face from last night, pink and quietly vulnerable, a far cry from the quiet confidence he’s portraying tonight. We’ll see how long that lasts.

He scales the steps, ducking his massive frame smoothly between the ropes and moving straight to his corner. His trainer is right there, already murmuring into his ear, wrapping a towel around the back of his neck. Dylan keeps his head down, refusing to look across the room, but the tension across his shoulders and the deliberate aversion of his gaze tells me everything I need to know.

“You’re up, Bastien,” Luke, my trainer, grunts, slapping me hard on the shoulder. “Show ‘em who owns this fucking city. Don’t fuck this for us.”

I grin, the nerves melting into pure adrenaline as my own music punches through the speakers, loud and frenetic and arrogant. My own walk to the ring couldn’t be any more different from Dylan’s; I bounce through the crowd, soaking in the cheers and boos in equal measure, the drama of it lighting up my instincts and sharpening my senses. I’m nothing if not a performer, and I always give the crowd exactly what they want—a fucking show.

By the time I slide between the ropes and take my own corner, tapping my gloved fists together restlessly and pacing back and forth as Luke rubs my shoulders, Dylan looks thoroughly pissed off already. My grin widens.

We don’t say a word to each other when our trainers peel away. Our eyes lock, our bodies falling into the fighting stance that’s like second nature to both of us. Dylan tilts his head down, his dark brows knitted together. I bare my teeth in a vicious smile.

The bell rings.

The noise of the crowd is a dull thrum as all my focus zeroes in on Dylan, watching his huge bulk shift from side to side, the heat of the overhead lights beating down on my back. Dylan doesn’t waste any time. He steps forward, throwing a heavy jab with enough power behind it to rattle my teeth, but I dancebackward, my boots squeaking against the canvas. My lightning reflexes save me by a fraction of a second.

“Too slow,mon grand,” I huff, flashing him a quick grin as I reset my stance.