Page 24 of Keep My Alpha

He’d look obscene with my bite there. Everyone would see it and know he’s mine. Every alpha on campus would smell me on him and back the hell off, and the thought makes my blood run so hot I have to grip the carpet to keep myself grounded.

My self-control would like a word.

His hand tightens on my wrist.

“Wren,” he says against my mouth.

“Mm.”

“I’m really glad you came over.”

I pull back enough to see his face. His eyes are bright, cheeks flushed, lips pink and a little swollen. He’s looking at me like I’m something worth keeping. I should tell him. Right now. I should say, Those birds are mine. I made them for you. Every single one.

But the words stick. Because if I say it, I’m not just Wren anymore. I’m the guy who’s been watching him for a year, leaving wooden birds like some kind of lovesick stalker, and this perfect, impossible thing happening on his bedroom floor... what if the truth wrecks it? What if the real me is a disappointment the ghost can’t survive?

“I’m glad too.”

Wren

“We could—“ Soren starts, then stops. His eyes flick to the bed.

I wait. My thumb traces his cheekbone, and the flush spreads down his neck.

“We could move,” he finishes, quieter. “If you want.”

If I want. Like there’s any world where I wouldn’t take whatever he’s offering.

I stand and haul him up. He’s lighter than I thought, or maybe I’m just running on pure adrenaline at this point.

I sit on the edge of the mattress and he stands between my knees, looking down at me. His fingers thread into my hair, tentative at first, then steadier when I lean into the touch.

“This is the part where I tell you my bed is kind of a mess. Sorry about the...” He gestures vaguely at the blanket pile. “I know it’s a lot. It’s not usually this bad, but Milo’s nest at Callum’s is basically architectural, so I have this complex about—“

“Soren.”

He stops talking.

“It’s perfect.” I mean the nest, the room, him—everything. But I’m not about to say all that out loud, so I just pull him down onto the bed with me.

He goes easy, lands on his back, hair all over the pillow. I end up over him, braced on one arm, and for a second I just stare. The afternoon light hits the ink stain on his finger, the shadows under his eyes, his mouth already open for me.

I kiss him. Slower than on the floor, slower than in the hallway. I take my time with his bottom lip, then the top, then the corner of his mouth where his smile starts. His hands slide up my arms and grip my shoulders, and his whole body arches into.

My mouth moves to his jaw. The hinge of it, where bone meets soft skin. He tilts his head and gives me his throat, offers it up, no hesitation, and I have to close my eyes for a second.

I kiss down his neck, right over the spot where his pulse is going wild under my mouth. My teeth ache. Every part of me wants to bite, mark him up, claim him right now. But I hold back. Not yet. Not until he asks for it, really asks, when he’s clear-headed and not running on adrenaline.

I drag my mouth lower. Collarbone. The hollow of his throat. He makes a sound that’s half sigh, half whimper, and his fingers tighten in my hair.

“Wren—“

“I’m here.” My hand finds the hem of his T-shirt, and I flatten my palm against his stomach. Warm skin, the faint trail of hair below his navel. His muscles jump under my touch. “Can I take this off?”

“Yeah. Yes. Please.”

I push his shirt up slow. He lifts his arms, I yank it over his head, and then he’s bare from the waist up. My brain just blanks out for a second. He’s lean, soft lines, warm brown skin, and there’s this tiny mole by his left hip that I have to get my mouth on.

So I do. I bend and press my lips to it, and Soren makes a sound like the air got punched out of him.