Page 58 of Keep My Alpha

“God help every single one of us.”

He laughs, low and warm, his chest vibrating against mine. I love that sound. I spent months imagining what the bird-carver’s laugh would be like, building a whole person from wooden wings and pine-scented fingerprints, but the real thing is even better.

I rock my hips again, harder, and Wren’s hands clamp on my waist. Not stopping me. Holding me. His cock is fully hard now, a thick ridge against my ass, and the pressure makes my brain go sideways.

“There’s sawdust in the bed,” he says.

“I don’t care.”

“You just said—“

“I changed my mind. Shut up and kiss me.”

He does. Deep and slow, one hand sliding up my spine under my shirt, the other cupping the back of my neck. My body knows that Wren’s hands mean safe, good, and home, and I react right away. His palm on my skin and I’m already getting wet, slick building between my thighs before we’ve even started. I shift in his lap, looking for more friction, wanting more of him against me.

I pull back far enough to tug my shirt over my head. His eyes drop down my chest, my stomach, the waistband of my shorts, and his jaw flexes in the way that means he’s barely holding back. His pulse is hammering in his throat, and my mouth waters. I want to press my teeth there. I want to feel him shake under me.

“I want to ride you,” I say. “In our nest. With all your ridiculous birds watching.”

“They’re not ridiculous.”

“Heathcliff is staring at me right now.”

“He’s a house finch. House finches are judgmental. It’s in the name.”

I laugh, and Wren’s face changes the way it always does when I laugh, like the whole room just got brighter and he’s trying to remember it.

We undress each other without rushing. Every other time we’ve had sex there’s been an edge to it: adrenaline, secrecy, grief, desperation. Tonight there’s just a crack of cold air from the window and Wren’s calloused thumbs on my hipbones as I push his sweatpants down.

His cock is hard and flushed, curving up against his stomach, and the sight gets me every time. I wrap my hand around him, feel the heat and the heaviness, and his breath catches. My thumb drags through the bead of slick at the tip, spreading it along where the head flares, and Wren’s hips lift off the bed. Slick is already running warm down my thighs, soaking into the blankets before we’ve even started. Mine.

I sink onto him inch by inch, and we both go still.

It’s familiar now, but the first push always gets me, that thick flare moving past resistance, my body opening for him with a slick, easy feeling I feel all the way up my spine. Wren’s hands are on my thighs, fingers spread wide, just holding. His head tips back against the headboard and his throat is a long, beautiful line.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—“

“I know.” I roll my hips, slow, finding the angle that drags sparks up my spine. “Tell me anyway.”

“Like the first time. Every time.” His voice is already wrecked. “Like I’m going to lose it before you’ve even—“ He breaks off when I clench around him, deliberate, and his hips jerk.

I set the pace. Slow, grinding, taking him deep. His cock drags against the spot inside me that makes my vision blur, and the sound I make is almost a whine. Wren’s thumb finds my claiming bite, pressing gently, and I shudder from the inside out. My purr starts up on its own, a low, steady vibration in my chest that I used to be embarrassed by. Now I let it happen, because Wren’s eyes always go dark when he hears it.

“There you are,” he murmurs. “God, I love that sound.”

“Possessive,” I manage.

“Yeah.” No hesitation. His grip tightens on my thigh, hard enough to bruise, and his hips roll up to meet my next downstroke. “Yeah, I am.”

“Say it, then.”

He doesn’t need to be asked twice, which is new, which is six months of practice. “Mine.” His hand slides up my back and splays between my shoulder blades, holding me down onto him while I grind. “This. The sound you’re making. The way you get wet before I’ve touched you. Mine.”

“You’ve touched me,” I point out, breathless, because somebody has to keep him honest. “You’ve had your hands on me since I walked in.”

“Before that.” His mouth finds my collarbone. “You were wet in the doorway. I could smell it from the bed.”

Oh. Well. That’s just rude, but it’s true, and it makes me clench around him so hard he groans into my skin. I’m dripping. I can feel it, slick running down my thighs and pooling where we’re joined. Every roll of my hips makes a sound that used to embarrass me, but now just makes me want more.