Page 27 of Keep My Alpha

“I’m fine.”

“You’re literally hard enough to cut glass.”

“Aware.” I pull his T-shirt back over his head, guiding his arms through. “I’ll survive.”

He catches my wrist as I smooth the fabric down over his stomach. Light grip, serious eyes. “Why won’t you let me touch you back?”

Because if he touches me, I’ll last maybe ten seconds, and then he’ll know his alpha has the stamina of a freshman with Wi-Fi. That’s what I’d tell Aaron. But really, taking something for myself means admitting I need, and I don’t know if that’s enough without the giving. The first reason is true too. Ten seconds. Maybe eight.

“Next time,” I say, and kiss his forehead. “First time you put your hands on me, I want it to be better than me embarrassing myself in under a minute.”

He flushes, but his mouth goes soft at the corners. “Okay. Next time.” He sounds pleased, not shut down.

He’s too boneless to argue. I kick off my boots and stretch out behind him, pull him in against my chest. My arm lands heavy over his waist, and he threads his fingers through mine, our hands fitting together on his stomach. Somewhere in there I lost my shirt, no idea when, but my jeans are still on, and the denim between us feels like a wall I need right now.

“The festival,” he murmurs after a while, sleepy and sated. “Your tree. When do you need it finished?”

“Two weeks. Main branches are done. Just detailing the canopy.”

“The little birds in the branches. They’re so beautiful.” His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. “They remind me of mine.”

My heart stops.

“The ones on your windowsill?” Steady. Keep it steady.

“Mm. My secret admirer birds.” He laughs, soft and drowsy. “It’s silly. I should probably be creeped out, but they make me feel... seen? Like someone out there decided I was worth all that effort.” His fingers tighten on mine. “Kind of like what you just did. That sounds ridiculous, right?”

“It doesn’t.” My voice comes out rough. “It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all.”

“I named them all, you know. All seven.”

“You mentioned.” I clear my throat. “Keats is the waxwing?”

“Keats is the waxwing. My favorite.” He yawns against my arm. “And the nuthatch is Fig because he looks permanently offended. You’d like them. The carving is incredible. Whoever makes them knows wood the way you do.”

I want to tell him so bad my jaw aches from clenching it shut.

Open your mouth. Hey, funny thing about those birds—

No. Not now. Not while he’s warm and trusting and still purring against my chest.

“You are,” I say quietly. “Worth all that effort.”

He makes a contented sound and pulls my arm tighter around him, settling deeper into the nest, into me. His purring picks back up, low and steady against my chest.

I hold him and look at my birds on his windowsill: house finch, junco, nuthatch, bluebird. My work. My hands. My dumb, clumsy heart sitting right there on his shelf. The waxwing on the nightstand catches the light, and I think about how he carries it everywhere, no idea the same hands that made it just took him apart.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He ignores it. So do I.

Soren

The mic is right at my chin, my hands are shaking so bad I can barely hold my poems, and there are at least forty people cramming themselves into these folding chairs. I’m pretty sure I’m about to forget how to read.

Not read poetry. Just read, period. I’ve been doing that since kindergarten, so this is pathetic.

Kendra materializes at my elbow with her clipboard and a lanyard that says FESTIVAL COORDINATOR in aggressive capital letters. “Just tilt it,” she says, reaching past me to adjust the mic with the bored efficiency of someone who’s done this nine hundred times. “The neck bends. See? Three poems, ten minutes, then we mingle. Don’t forget to mention your title card.” She taps the printed placard on the lectern’s edge, and then she’s gone, clipboard-first, toward the refreshment table.

I suck in a breath, try to flatten out my pages, and force myself to look at the room.