Page 32 of Keep My Alpha

“Okay,” I breathe into his mouth. “Okay. Yeah.”

I lay him back on the nest. The blankets are impossibly soft under my hands. His hair fans out against a flowered quilt. I reach for the nightstand drawer he showed me last time, my hand finding the lube, and we both huff a laugh because I know exactly where it is now. He blushes this gorgeous deep red.

“Shut up,” he says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face said it.”

I start with my mouth. Kiss my way down his throat, his chest, the flat plane of his stomach. I tongue the crease of his hip, and he jolts, fingers tangling in my hair. Then lower. I lick into him, tasting his slick and his salt, spreading him open with my thumbs and working my tongue in slow circles until his thighs are trembling on either side of my head. His hole is already wet, slick leaking steadily, and the taste of him, sweet and sharp and his, makes my head swim. I press my tongue inside, fucking him with it in lazy strokes while my hands hold his hips down so he can’t squirm away.

One finger. He clenches, then melts around me when I find the right spot, and the sound he makes is high and broken and perfect. I keep it there, just one, rubbing slow circles against his prostate while I watch his face. The way his lips part. The crease between his brows softening as the stretch goes from too much to not enough. His hips start making these tiny involuntary rolls, pushing down onto my hand.

“There,” I murmur against his inner thigh, when his hips find the angle on their own. “You found it. Keep going.”

Two fingers, slicked with lube on top of what’s already there, and I stretch him carefully. He hisses at the added width, and I hold still, letting him adjust, my free hand pressed flat on his hipbone to ground him. After a few breaths he rocks down again, deliberate, taking my fingers deeper. I crook them, rub over his prostate until his cock twitches and more slick floods my hand, dripping warm down my wrist and onto Benji’s chunky knit blanket.

“We’re ruining Benji’s blanket,” he says, breathless, and the laugh that comes out of me is surprised and real.

“I’ll wash it.”

“He’ll know, Wren. He’ll look at it, and he’ll know.”

“Then I’ll buy him a new one.” I curl my fingers again, and he gasps. “More?”

“More,” he breathes. “Please, Wren, I can take it.”

Three. He gasps, his whole body going taut, and I hold perfectly still, buried to the last knuckle. My other hand rests flat on his stomach, thumb rubbing circles. I can feel the tension in his abs, the way his muscles are clenching and releasing around my fingers as his body figures out how to make room. His breathing stutters, short, shallow pulls, and then he blows out one long exhale, and I feel him open, deliberately, the ring of muscle softening like a decision.

“Good,” I tell him, and his cock jerks against his belly at the word. I file that away somewhere permanent. “Letting me in like that. Good.”

When his hips start grinding down on my hand, greedy and shameless, I know he’s ready. I keep working him open anyway, scissoring gently, dragging my fingers in and out while my mouth stays on his balls, sucking one then the other, licking up the underside of his cock without giving him the relief of full suction. I want him shaking. I want him desperate before I give him my knot.

His cock is leaking steadily, a clear thread connecting the tip to the mess on his stomach. He’s making these punched-out little sounds every time I drag my fingers over his prostate, and his thighs are trembling hard against my shoulders.

I pull my fingers out. He whines at the loss, hole clenching on nothing, and I coat my cock with what’s on my palm and add more lube because I’m not rushing this. I line up, the tip pressing against his wet hole, and I pause.

“Look at me.”

He does. Eyes huge, lashes wet, lips bitten red.

I push in.

Slow. So slow it’s torture for both of us. The head of my cock pops past his rim and his hole flutters around me, hot and tight even with all the slick and all the prep. He grabs my forearms, breathing “fuck, fuck, okay” into my collarbone while I hold myself perfectly still, barely inside him, every muscle locked so I don’t slam forward.

“Breathe,” I tell him. Tell myself.

He breathes. His body softens by degrees, and there’s a moment where his muscles stop fighting and start wanting. I rock forward another inch, then another, letting him feel every fraction. The wet sound of it is filthy and perfect.

“Talk to me,” he says into my collarbone. Small. “Tell me what—I need you to tell me.”

So I do, and I’m not a talker; I’ve said maybe forty words to him tonight, but it turns out I can do this. “Halfway. You’re taking me halfway, and you’re so wet it’s running down my balls.” His hole clenches at that, and we both groan. “A little more. There. Feel that? That’s the thick part. You’ve got it.” His nails dig in. “You’ve got it, Soren. You’ve got all of it.”

When I finally bottom out, hips flush against his ass, we both go still.

Being inside him completely, his body wrapped tight around every inch of my cock, steals the air out of me. He’s clenching in these helpless little pulses, each one shooting straight up my spine. I hold there, not moving, feeling him adjust. His nails bite into my forearms. Slowly, the tension in his face melts into something dazed and wanting.

It’s so right it almost hurts. Like something in me finally lined up the way it was supposed to.