Page 16 of Keep My Alpha

Instead I hold him steady. Plant my feet.

“Good,” I tell him, because I can tell he’s close, his thighs shaking, his grip on my hair gone tight enough to sting. “That’s good. Take what you need.”

“I can’t—“ His voice cracks. His hips stutter, lose their rhythm, find it again harder. He’s grinding against the seam of my jeans now. “Wren, I’m—”

“I know.” I press my mouth to his temple. My hand tightens on his hip, steadying him, giving him the resistance he’s chasing. “Then don’t. Right here, baby. Let me feel it.”

His fingers dig into my scalp. His breath goes sharp, punched-out, each exhale a broken sound against my collarbone. Wet heat spreads against my thigh, slick soaking through his jeans and into mine. His scent spikes sweet and thick, filling my lungs.

My cock throbs so hard my vision blurs. Need to rut, need to grind, need to take. I bite my tongue instead. Hard.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur into his hair. “I’ve got you. You’re so good.”

He goes rigid. Every muscle locks, thighs clamping around mine. His back arches, fingers frozen in my hair, and he comes with a strangled sound that he buries in my shoulder. His hips jerk in tight, helpless little thrusts. I hold him through every second of it, my hand firm on his hip, my mouth pressed to the top of his head.

We stay locked for a long moment. Then his fingers uncurl from my hair and he pulls back to look at me.

If anyone came down this hallway right now, I think I’d probably kill them.

My cock is a problem. An aching, obvious problem pressed against his hip, and the animal part of me is being extremely loud about the fact that he’s wet and warm and right here and there’s a utility closet six feet away. When he shifts, the wet patch on my jeans where his slick soaked through pulls at my skin, warm, cooling at the edges, fabric clinging to my thigh. Every nerve is screaming at me to rut, to grind, to take.

I breathe through my nose. In. Out.

“Oh,” he says into my shoulder. Muffled. “That was—“

“Yeah.”

“In a hallway.”

“Yeah.”

His cheeks are flushed, and his smile is the most embarrassed, delighted, ruined thing I’ve ever seen. “I just—on your—“

“I know.”

“In my underwear.”

“Soren.” I say his name and his whole body ripples. A shiver from his shoulders all the way down. My thumb keeps moving on his neck. “You’re fine. You’re good.”

He stares at me. His hand comes up and touches my jaw, tracing the line of it like he’s checking I’m real. His fingers are cold. I turn my head and press my mouth to his palm.

We stand there. His back against the wall, my arm braced beside his head, his hand against my face. The hallway hums with recycled air and the distant thump of someone’s music through a closed door. I can smell both of us, and something new underneath that belongs to neither of us alone.

“Your phone,” I say eventually.

He blinks. “What?”

“Give me your phone. I’m putting my number in.”

He digs it out of his back pocket with shaky fingers and hands it over, unlocked. I type my name and number in carefully because my hands aren’t much steadier than his. I almost type something in the notes field, the hallway guy, or the maintenance idiot who can’t stop looking at you, but I just save the contact and hand it back.

“Text me when you’re home,” I say. “Please.”

“I will.” He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve. “Wren.”

“Soren.”

“Thank you. For—with Derek. And for—“ He gestures vaguely between us, at the wall, at what just happened.