Page 13 of Training the Alpha

Alex hums in satisfaction. “Good fucking boy.”

I pull against the restraints again, the fabric biting into my skin and my muscles straining as Alex slides off his underwear first, then mine. He grabs a bottle of lube from his bedside table, sitting back on my thighs and making a show of slicking himself up as he speaks.

“You’re going to stay right there,” he says breathily as he trails his fingers down his toned stomach, ghosting over his length, before moving lower and working two fingers inside himself slowly, letting out a shaky moan as he pushes them deep, rocking his hips. “And you’re going to take exactly what I give you, like the good alpha you are.”

Fuck.My cock strains, red and dripping and exposed to the warm air of Alex’s bedroom and the hot drag of his gaze.

“Fuck you,” I gasp. His cock slaps against his stomach, thick and rigid, and it strikes me that he actually could fuck me right now, if he wanted to. And the crazy thing is, I don’t even know if I’d stop him if he tried.

He spends a few agonizing minutes working himself open while I watch hungrily, getting more and more riled up, precum pooling on my stomach.

My back arches off the bed when he finally wraps a delicate hand around my shaft, although his grip is maddeningly loose as he slicks me up before drizzling more lube over the fat head, and letting it drip messily down to the base. By the time he grips my hips and lines me up with his entrance, my alpha is damn near bursting out of my chest.

My mouth is dry, my heart beating an erratic rhythm in my ears, every sense narrowing down to the ache in my balls and the ethereal image of Alex as he sinks down on me, swallowing my length inch by torturous inch as we both groan in unison.

I clench my jaw, my wrists pulling the bands taut, desperate to run my fingers over the smooth plain of Alex’s chest and abs, to feel the hard muscle contract as he clenches around me when I’m fully seated inside him. Or maybe I want to claw at him, to scratch angry lines down his unblemished flesh and sink my teeth into his neck and dominate him until he’s a sobbing, whining mess underneath me.

But when he lifts himself up—hovering so just my tip is inside him before dropping back down heavily, enveloping me in his searing heat—I’m the one who’s whimpering.

“That’s it,” he says, when a helpless groan tears itself from my throat. “I want to hear how desperate you are.”

I buck my hips, trying to regain some semblance of control by fucking into him, but he leans back so his hands are on my shins, holding me down as his body arches on a breathless gasp. He starts to move, his powerful hips rolling in a fierce, practiced rhythm, riding me with an aggressive power that shows just how impressive an alpha he really is, and leaves me trembling and gasping for breath.

He’s flushed from his neck to his thighs, his dirty blonde hair wild, and his face twisted in bliss as he rides me, the sunlight painting him gold. And it hits me that nothing has ever been this good. Nothingcouldever be better than this. Than him.

“Goddamn, Alex,” I grunt, my orgasm approaching so much faster than I want it to. “I need to touch you. Let me fucking touch you, alpha.”

“No,” he says, eyes gleaming, leaning forward so he can run the flat of his palms over my ribs and roll my sensitive nipples between his finger and thumb until I’m whining like a dog. “Only if you beg for it.”

“You know I can’t,” I grit out.

“Then you’ll just have to watch.”

He takes his hands off of me and puts them on himself—stroking his beautiful cock with a firm twist of his hand, never breaking his rhythm as he bounces in my lap. His mouth drops open a fraction, his pink lips pursed as he pursues his own pleasure.

“So fucking good,” he murmurs, his eyes half-lidded as he gazes down at me, his scent deepening even further as he gets closer to the edge. “Letting me use you like this. Like a good toy.”

This time, when my hips buck up to meet his downward strokes, he lets me, each hard thrust drawing a ragged cry out of him. One hand grips my shoulder as the other continues to work his cock, smearing himself with his own precome, and god, I want to taste him. I want to coat my fingers with his release and lick it off, I want to bury my nose in the crook of his neck and breathe him in until I’m a growling, sweating, horny mess, until there’s no distinction left between my alpha and his, until—

“Fuck, Alex, I’m close—” I rasp.

“Me too,” he says, his breath hitching as he grinds down against me feverishly, taking exactly what he wants from me. The air is thick with our combined scents, cedar and mint and tobacco and amber, melding until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, and I fuckinglove it. “Come for me, alpha.”

Alex drives himself down onto me one last time, his hole clamping around my throbbing shaft. And even though the pressure and the heat are overwhelming, that’s not what pushes me over the edge: the sight of him coming undone is what does it. His head is thrown back in ecstasy, chest glistening with exertion, cock spilling over my stomach in hot, thick ropes that paint me in white stripes up to my neck.

I come with a stuttered groan, my orgasm ripping through me in a violent, pulsing rush as I fill him. My vision darkens at the edges as we ride it out together, squeezing every last drop of pleasure out of one another until our chests are heaving, completely spent.

When Alex finally slides the restraints off my wrists, my alpha is quiet enough that I don’t pin him down or wrestle him into the mattress; I just reach for him and tangle my fingers in the soft strands of his hair, pulling our bodies flush and burying my nose against his shoulder until our breathing returns to something resembling normal.

Alex does eventually get around to giving me the tour. His apartment is small but beautiful, filled with natural light and the kind of classy, timeless furniture that I want but don’t know where to find. There’s a pile of dance shoes in one corner, and a massage ball and foam roller on the coffee table.

Alex shows me around in typical Alex style, revealing the contents of his fridge like he’s on an episode of Cribs, and posing in various positions around his cramped bathroom while I lean against the doorframe and watch him with a pathetic smile on my face.

As we walk back to the bedroom, I notice Alex is favoring his right side, like he’s avoiding putting too much weight on his left foot. It’s subtle—probably not noticeable to the average person—but I’ve spent enough time studying his form and theprecise mechanics of his body that it’s glaringly obvious to me. I remember the old Achilles injury he mentioned during our first meeting.

“Is your Achilles giving you trouble?” I ask.

He glances down at his ankle with a wince. “A little. Between rehearsals and training with you, it’s been a heavy load recently. It plays up from time to time, but I can usually power through.”