Page 40 of Evan and the Alpha

I rub his forearm. “It’s all right,” I hear myself murmur; I’m barely cognizant of anything except the glorious heat stretched all around me. “Take it slow.”

Evan makes a frustrated noise in his throat, shaking his head. Then he renews his efforts, inching down my cock. He winces every so often, but he makes it down, seating himself fully on my prick, knot and all. He sits there for a moment or two, just panting. Then he looks down, passing a hand absently over his abdomen. “Fuck,” he whispers, “you’re so big, I … I can feel you here.” His breath hitches, like he finds the thought arousing.

Actually, from the state of him, his own cock, he does find the thought arousing. “You’re so deep,” he says, glancing up at me for confirmation.

“Mm,” I agree. I rub his sides, feel the heat of his dewy skin. He’s started to sweat; it’s a curious feature, I think, but he says it’s normal for humans. Or sun spirits. Or whatever he is.

Beautiful, I think as he raises himself up, then slides back down on my prick. His eyes widen; his pupils have dilated again, nearly swallowing up the sparkling green. His mouth is open, a little rosy “o,” like he’s singing a hymn or praying to the gods.

He shuts his eyes, tosses his head back, and gives voice to a better song: pleasure. He moans with it, his voice breaking on it, and I tighten my grip on him as he starts to move in earnest.

Gek the healer is going to kill me if Evan’s enthusiastic bouncing opens this wound up again, pops all these careful stitches, but heavens above, I can’t stop him. I don’t have the heart, not even with warning pain from my abdomen climbing my spine. Evan looks too divine, too delectable, to even fathom stopping. His tight heat sliding up and down my length is another very good argument for not stopping him; he feels so wonderful around me. I’m struck with the urge to flip him onto his back and drill into him, hold him down and fuck him like he seems to want, but I don’t dare. Moving might breakthis spell.

“Choke me,” Evan rasps the next time he has me fully sheathed inside him, his eyes flying open. He’s gone, and I barely choke back a groan as his fingers seek out mine. “Please.”

He guides my hand to his thin, fragile neck. I could crush his windpipe easily; I could snap his neck with no thought.

He nods frantically at me when I seek his gaze. He puts my hand to his throat; I squeeze lightly, enjoying the way his pulse flutters under my fingers, his breath catching.

“Just a little,” I tell him, and he nods. I increase the pressure of my fingers, pushing down on his throat. He sucks in a rattling breath, then seems to realize he can’t breathe quite as easily as he could before.

I know this is dangerous. He’s so fragile; I could kill him in a second. If I choke him just a bit too long, if I squeeze too hard …

He struggles more for breath, chest heaving. His movements stutter; he loses his rhythm, his control.

I release my hold, watching desperation flood into relief as he drags in a full breath, shaking. “Again,” he demands, his voice now hoarse.

I shake my head. My gut is twisting nervously; I’m a little afraid, a little dizzy with the power he’s giving me. He’s got my hand again, raising it to his neck, nodding at me. “Again,” he repeats.

I choke him a little harder, think about bruises coming up on his skin—they show through wonderfully well. Everyone will know he’s mine. He’ll wear the bruises like a collar, a collar I pressed into his skin. Everyone will know that he’s conceded to me, surrendered—in this moment, I have complete control over him, over whether he lives or dies.

The thought makes my head spin, that the omega trusts me enough to cede that kind of control. I listen to him gasp for breath, trying to drag an inhalation through his nose, like that will somehow make it easier. When it doesn’t, he goes back to open-mouthed gasping, panting.

I release him when his head dips dangerously, when his grip on my wrist fumbles and slackens a little bit. I don’t want him to pass out. I don’t want him to die.

His next inhalation sounds like ecstasy. I glance down; he’s made a mess of himself, sticky white fluid splattered over his stomach, over his fingers, running down his cock.

I look back up at him, find his desperate gaze. He’s still struggling for breath; he’s leaned over, his hair swinging slightly as he moves; and I don’t think I’ll ever forget the flush of his cheeks, his lips moving around the syllables inCome inside me, please.

I grip his hips, nails biting into his skin. I can’t deny him, especially not such a pretty request, and I bury myself deep in him, watch him straighten up, head lolling back with a cry. It does the trick; I finish deep inside him, knotting him, overwhelmed by sensation and the dizzy claws of power.