Page 112 of Alphas Like Us

I lose balance on my left hand. “Fuck,” Icurse.

He hooks his legs around me, and before I even blink, he flips us in one careful and effortless movement. Tapping into his strength and MMA skill, he topsme.

And my backgentlymeets the mattress. He’s protecting my body from my aggressive self-destruction.

I like to manhandle and be manhandled. Not new news. But it’s pretty difficult with a surgically repaired collarbone that’s in the process ofhealing.

He straddles my waist, and his chest is hoisted off mine. Tattooed hands splay on either side of my shoulders on themattress.

Our eyes create hot tracks along our faces, and I run my large hand across his rough jaw, a less-than-close shave. God, his masculinity fists me, and my carriage elevates in a blisteredbreath.

He turns his head slightly and kisses my palm. I rake my fingers through his bleach-white hair, and then hold his warmneck.

Farrow rubs my bicep before whispering, “I’m being as rough with you as I can be without hurting you.” He wishes he could give memore.

If he had fractured a bone, I would’ve been the same way with him. Not hesitating or bubble-wrapping him, just highly aware of his physical limitations. And knowing that he’d want to push againstthem.

I nod once. “I get it,man.”

Farrow startssmiling.

“What?” Iask.

“How you call me ‘man’ in bed,” he tells me, lowering his lips to mine, a teasing breath away. He must catch my confusion because he clarifies, “It’s the way you always say it with extra force. It sounds more like I’m yourman. Not just any fucking man.” He raises his brows at me. “It’shot.”

I barely have time to react to that. Because Farrow lowers more of his weight into me, and Ithrob.

Fuck.I reach down and free us from our boxer-briefs. Shedding the last fabric, we kick the underwear off ourankles.

I grip his length and mine together, rubbing us in a tight fist. Pre-cum slick in my palm—I flex, breath knotted in mythroat.

Farrow shoves my hand aside and sits up off me. “Don’t jack us off.” He reaches for the end table, his mosaic of pirate tattoos cascading down cut muscle. I watch his hands, two images inked on top: sparrows by his thumbs and skull-and-crossbones in themiddle.

I crunch upward and push myself to my knees with one hand. He’s knelt too, holding my gaze. Farrow shakes a black bottle and squirts lube in his palm. He strokes us, mixing lube with pre-cum, while wekiss.

More aggressively.Passionately.

He tosses the bottle aside, and our mouths break, catching ourbreaths.

“What position were you thinking?” Farrow asks since many have been hypothetically eliminated. My brain says most sex positions aredoable.

And bymost,I meanall.

“Me topping you, on our sides facing eachother.”

He tilts his head at me like I’ve flown to Mars by myself and built a colony of one. “On your side?” he repeats. He makes a point of eyeing my shoulder, the bandage gone. A thick reddened puffy scar lines the length of my leftcollarbone.

“Yeah.” I don’tconcede.

“No, fuck no,” he says easily and waves me on. “Keepgoing.”

I glance at his long, hardened cock. I want that in me as much as I want mine inhim.

“I spoon you.” If there are proper terms for these positions, I don’t know them. I have a lot of sex. But I don’t research the fuck out of it on theinternet.

“That’s also on your side,” he says. “Keepgoing.”

I exhale a hot breath. “Doggy-style or the one where your legs are splayed to the side and I’m standing off the bed and entering you from behind. But I could bottom for that one.” It’s one of my favorite positions I’ve been in as a bottom. I think because he wrapped his hand around my neck while he pounded into me, and I was so into it, into him, and I saw how much he got off onthat.