Page 6 of Training the Alpha

Absolutely nothing to do with that.

The regulars have cleared out already, and Jed left fifteen minutes ago, so it’s just Alex and me left under the dim overhead lights of the gym.

He raises an eyebrow suggestively. “Oh?”

I give him an amused shake of my head, hoping the sudden, irritating heat that rises to my cheeks isn’t visible. After his comments in the locker room on Friday, I thought about asking him to tone down the flirtatious comments, to draw a firm,professional line between trainer and client. I even rehearsed a stern speech about boundaries and focus, with some lines about how I’mstraight, very straight,strictly only interested in omegas, thrown in for good measure, even though they sounded like overcompensation even to my own ears.

But the words died in my throat as soon as he stepped into the gym tonight. Scratch that, as soon as I opened my phone to the text from him earlier, asking to reschedule, and the winking emoji he signed off with made my hands tremble.

“We’re graduating from pads,” I say, my voice sounding rougher than usual as I try to pull myself out of my rapidly spiraling train of thought. I toss a pair of heavy gloves at him, and he catches them easily against his chest. “You’ve got the combinations down, but you’re still moving like a dancer. I want to see how you fare when you’re up against an actual pair of fists. We’re doing light technical sparring—nothing heavy, no real risk of you getting hurt, just a chance to put you under pressure.”

He slides the gloves on, a devilish smile curling his lips. “If you want to put your hands on me, coach, all you have to do is ask.” He flexes his fingers against the leather, testing out the weight. “And here I thought you were a gentleman.”

I don’t take the bait, but when I pick up a helmet from the bench and step close to tug it over Alex’s head, the way my scent spikes heavily, shrouding him in a thick wave of tobacco and amber tells a completely different story. His scent fights back automatically, laden with a spicy, competitive alpha edge that makes the air between us turn static.

“Just so I don’t fuck up that pretty face too much,” I smirk, the combination of seeing him in fighting gear and the heaviness of his scent bringing out my cocky side. The sudden spark in his icy blue eyes tells me he’s enjoying it.

I snap on my own helmet and gloves and lead him into the ring. The gym feels different from up here—the lights overhead are dim but focused, the ring elevated so the rest of the gym falls away into the shadows. It never fails to get my blood pumping.

“Don’t worry, I chose to do this when the gym is nearly empty so you wouldn’t get too self-conscious up here,” I tease, my eyes narrowing as I pace the ring predatorily, watching him take in the open space. “Didn’t want to embarrass you too much.”

“Marcus, you’ve practically put me on a stage,” he says smoothly. “I feel right at home.”

“Then put your gloves up, dancer. Let’s see if you can keep up that bravado when I’m pressing you. Let’s go.”

Excitement and heat swirl in my core as we fall into a fighting stance. The gloves, the helmet, the surroundings—they automatically pull Alex into the more defensive posture I’ve been trying to beat into him for weeks, overriding his natural ballet stance.

“There we go,” I say, bouncing on my toes. “Maybe we just needed to put you in the right costume.”

He responds by shooting his right fist out in a sharp jab, which I expertly dodge, a grin breaking across my face as exhilaration jolts down my spine.

“Good,” I say. “Keep your weight evenly distributed, light on your feet.”

We circle each other, the squeak of our boots and the light puff of our breathing the only sounds in the cavernous room. He goes for me again, throwing a quick jab-cross combination. I slip the first and parry the second with lightning speed and ease, barely shifting my stance.

“Too wide,” I murmur, stepping closer into his space. Before he has a chance to adjust, I tap his ribs with my glove—firm enough to make his breath hitch, but soft enough to be a warning rather than a real hit. “You’re dropping your left handwhen you throw the cross, leaving your chin exposed. Keep your guard high, shoulders raised.”

My blood thrums through my veins as he adjusts and we dance around each other again. I don’t give him any space this time, staying right at the edge of his vision, my huge frame casting a long shadow as I crowd him under the dim overhead lights. Our scents mingle, both heavy from the exertion, the competition, the proximity.

“Again,” I say, my voice deep and rough around the edges.

He launches forward, throwing a fast jab, but I don't just slip it this time. I counter, hooking one bulky glove around the back of his neck to throw him off balance. It works, and he stumbles into my chest as I pull us together in a possessive grip that has all my alpha instincts raging at once.

“You’re still leaving yourself open,” I pant, close enough that I can feel his breath fanning over my face, see the way his pupils are blown wide. “You’re so eager to land a hit, you’re letting yourself get caught.”

“Maybe I want to get caught,” he breathes back, tilting his chin up despite the restrictive helmet. My heart is thudding so frantically he must be able to feel it against his ribcage, and his scent is driving me wild. A bead of sweat runs down my neck that has nothing to do with the workout.

I exhale sharply. My eyes dart left and right, taking in the blazing heat reflected in his gaze. I relax my arm around his neck, but press him back until the ropes dig into his lower back, caging him in with my hips as I rip open the velcro of my gloves with my teeth and let them fall into the ring with a heavythunk. I yank off my helmet, needing all my senses back, needing tobreathe, and then my wrapped hands come to his temples, unbuckling his headgear and tearing it away, exposing his damp hair and the flushed, tempting skin of his neck.

My chest is heaving with a fervent, territorial hunger that’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. Aggression and arousal melding into one giant, terrifying mindfuck that has my base alpha instincts fighting for dominance, my pulse stuttering wildly, and my cock throbbing painfully in my shorts.

I don’t know whether I want to knock him out or bend him over.

“You want to rip my throat out right now, right?” His voice is dripping with seduction, his breath hot as he leans in to whisper against my ear.

I nod curtly, my windpipe constricted. “Yeah, I fucking do.”

He leans back just enough to show me a satisfied smile, and then his fingers trail across the silky fabric of my shorts, tracing my heavy, rigid length. “And does that make you hard?”