Page 10 of His Problem Alpha

Alex

T he only sound in the room is Devon’s breathing, and for the first time in years, the screaming in my head goes quiet.

He’s curled up on his side, sleeping with one hand tucked under his cheek like a kid.

His face is still flushed pink, dark lashes against his skin.

A dark bruise is already forming on his throat where my mouth was, where I’d marked him without a conscious thought.

My thumb ghosts over the mark, not quite touching.

Six years of guilt tells me to run for the door.

But I don’t move. I’m taking in everything—the soft puff of his breath, his messy hair spread across the pillow, our scents tangled together in the sheets.

It smells right, and that’s what scares the shit out of me.

Devon shifts, a small whimper slipping past his lips. His brow furrows, and I can smell it before he even wakes—the sweet, honeyed scent of his heat rising again, cutting through the musky satisfaction that had settled in the room. The next wave is coming.

“Water,” I mutter. The word feels foreign in my dry throat. We’re both probably dehydrated as hell.

I ease off the bed, my own body aching in ways that are both deeply satisfying and deeply wrong. My legs are shaky, like I just ran a fucking marathon. I pad to the kitchen, fill a glass with cold water, and come back to find him stirring, his eyes fluttering open. They’re hazy, unfocused.

“Alex?” His voice is a raw scrape of sound.

“I’m here.” The words are too soft, too gentle. I don’t recognize myself. “Drink this.”

He tries to sit up, then falls back with a wince that twists my gut.

Before I can think about it, my arm is behind his shoulders, lifting him just enough.

I bring the glass to his lips and he drinks like a man dying of thirst, water spilling down his chin.

My thumb moves on its own, wiping a stray drop away. The contact is electric.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his eyes a little clearer now but still heavy with sleep and heat.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, my arm still holding his weight.

A weak laugh escapes him. “Like I’ve been hit by a truck. A really… satisfying truck.”

I catch myself smiling. Even half-gone with heat, he’s still got that sharp edge. He’s still Devon.

“Next wave’s coming,” I say, my voice low. I can feel the heat rising off his skin, smell his scent sweetening in the air.

He shivers, his pupils blowing wide. “I know. I can feel it.” He looks away, and I can practically see the embarrassment warring with the need on his face. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“For… all this. For needing it. For dragging you into my biological train wreck.”

I should agree. I should say, yeah, it’s a fucking mess , and put some distance back between us. Instead, my hand finds his hair, stroking it back from his forehead. The gesture feels so fucking natural it makes my chest ache.

“You didn’t drag me anywhere,” I say, my voice quiet. “I chose to stay.”

His eyes snap to mine, wide with a surprise that hits me harder than any of his insults ever have.

Before he can say anything, another shiver wracks his body, a powerful tremor that makes him gasp.

His scent floods the room, that sweet honey turning thick and intoxicating.

It makes my mouth water and my cock twitch against my jeans.

“Alex,” he whispers, and my name on his lips is a fucking prayer.

His voice breaks something open inside me. The frantic, animal need from last night is gone. In its place is something slower, deeper, more dangerous. I want to learn every inch of him. Find what makes him gasp. Make him fall apart under my hands.

I ease him back against the pillows, my hands gentle but my grip firm. “I’ve got you,” I murmur, and the words feel like the truest thing I’ve said in years. “Let me take care of you.”

Devon’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t fight me as I move over him, caging his body with mine. This isn’t like before. This isn’t a frantic collision. This is intentional.

I start at his neck, nuzzling the spot behind his ear where his scent is a drug.

It’s citrus and honey, but underneath is something darker—coffee and ink and that sharp, clever scent that’s purely Devon, even through the heat.

I breathe him in, letting the scent fill my lungs, letting it quiet the ghosts for just a minute.

“You smell so fucking good,” I growl against his skin, feeling the tremor that runs through him. “Like something I could get addicted to.”

“Alex,” he gasps, his hands fisting in the sheets.

I lick a slow path down his throat, tasting the salt of his sweat, lingering on the pulse hammering there. I map his collarbones with my tongue, find the surprisingly sensitive spot just below his ribs that makes him jerk and cry out.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a strained whisper.

I look up, my mouth hovering over his stomach. “Learning you,” I say, the honesty of it raw in the air between us. “Finding what makes you feel good.”

A dark flush spreads down his neck, disappearing under the marks I’ve already left on him. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” The words are a surprise, even to me. “I want to taste every last inch of you.”

I don’t give him a chance to argue. I move lower, my hands spreading his thighs.

The scent of his slick hits me like a drug—sweet and musky and so rich it makes my mouth water and my fangs ache.

I just stare for a second, taking in the sight of him.

Flushed and hard, his hole already glistening, weeping slick for me.

“Fuck,” I breathe. “Look at you. So ready.”

He makes a choked sound, half shame and half need, and tries to close his legs. I hold them open, my thumbs pressing into the soft skin of his inner thighs.

“Don’t you dare hide from me,” I tell him, my voice dropping into a low alpha command that makes him shiver. “Let me see you. Let me taste you.”

I don’t wait for an answer. I lower my head and lick a long, slow stripe from his hole to the base of his cock.

His taste explodes in my mouth—not just sweet, but complex.

The sharp tang of citrus, the salt from his skin, and a deep, musky flavor that’s all his own.

It’s the taste of his life force, raw and unfiltered, and I can’t get enough.

“Oh god,” Devon chokes out, his back arching off the bed. “Alex—fuck—what are you—?”

I hum against him, a pleased, possessive sound. “That’s it, omega,” I murmur, and the word feels right, like it belongs to him. “Let me hear how good it feels.”

I dive back in, my tongue circling his entrance before dipping inside.

His slick is hot and silky, and I lap it up like a man starved.

My tongue finds a ridge just inside him, and when I press, his entire body seizes, a high, thin whine tearing from his throat.

I press again, memorizing the spot. His spot.

He writhes under me, a stream of broken sounds spilling from his lips. His hands find my hair, fingers tangling, pulling just hard enough to send a jolt of pleasure-pain down my spine.

“Please,” he gasps, his voice wrecked. “Please, Alex, I need—”

I know what he needs. I can smell it in the fresh gush of slick that floods my mouth, feel it in the way his body is trembling on a knife’s edge.

I pull back and move up his body, our eyes locking. His are wild, desperate. All the sarcasm, all the walls, are gone. There’s only raw, open need.

“What do you need, Devon?” I ask, my voice rough. “Tell me.”

“You,” he whispers, the word stripped bare. “Inside me. Please.”

I could push him. Make him beg more. But the pure vulnerability in his eyes undoes me. This isn’t just heat. This is Devon.

“You’re so good,” I tell him, the praise falling from my lips before I can think. “So perfect for me.”

His reaction is like a lightning strike. His whole body shudders, pupils blowing wide, a soft whimper escaping his throat. He arches up, pressing against me, seeking more contact.

Holy shit. He responds to praise. Devon Garcia—prickly, sarcastic, take-no-shit Devon—melts when you tell him he’s good.

“You like that,” I murmur, the discovery a hot, thrilling secret. “Being told how good you are.”

He turns his face away, a flush of embarrassment on his cheeks, but I cup his chin, making him look at me.

“Don’t hide,” I tell him, my voice gentle but firm. “Not from me.”

His eyes meet mine, uncertain and exposed. “It’s stupid,” he mutters.

“It’s not.” I lean down, my lips brushing his ear. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful, letting me see you like this.”

Another shudder runs through him. A possessive instinct, dark and absolute, coils in my gut.

I move up his body, my mouth finding the tender skin of his collarbone.

I don’t just kiss it. I bite down. Hard.

Not enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a dark, bruising mark of my possession.

He gasps, a sharp, pained sound, and I expect him to push me away.

Instead, his entire body arches into the bite, a silent, desperate plea for more.

The submission sends a bolt of pure ownership through me. He’s mine. In this room, in this heat, he’s mine. I bite him again, on his shoulder this time, leaving another mark. He whines, a sound of pure pleasure, and the last of my control evaporates.

“So good for me,” I continue, my hands sliding down to grip his hips. “So perfect, so wet and ready.”

He makes a sound that’s half sob, half moan, his hips bucking against me. “Please,” he gasps. “Stop talking and just—fuck me.”

I silence him with a kiss, positioning myself between his open thighs.

The head of my dick nudges his entrance, and I push in slow, watching his face.

His eyes roll back, lips parting on a silent gasp as I fill him.

The tight heat of him nearly breaks me. Nothing has ever felt this good.

I have to grit my teeth against the urge to just pound into him, to take and claim and ruin.

“Fuck,” I groan, dropping my forehead to rest against his. “You feel incredible.”

His hands clutch my shoulders, nails digging in. “Move,” he demands, his voice cracking. “Please, Alex, I need you to move.”

I obey, drawing back before pushing in again, deep and deliberate. I angle each thrust to hit that spot that makes his back arch. I’m learning what makes him fall apart, and fuck if it isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Is this what you need?” I growl, my voice rough against his ear.

His eyes, hazy with pleasure, struggle to focus on mine. “Everything,” he chokes out. “Don’t stop.”

“That’s it,” I murmur against his throat, nipping at the skin there. “Take all of me.”

The praise keeps coming, an unstoppable flood. “So perfect, so tight. Taking my cock so well. My good omega.”

Each word pushes him closer. His eyes are glazed, lost. His body responds to my voice as much as my touch, clenching around me every time I tell him how good he is.

I feel my knot begin to swell, the thick ridge of it catching on his rim. The sensation is fucking incredible, his tight body resisting then yielding, again and again.

“Gonna knot you,” I warn him, my voice strained. “Gonna fill you up, keep you full of me.”

“Yes,” he moans, head thrashing on the pillow. “Yes, please, Alpha, knot me, fill me—”

His words shatter the last of my restraint. One hand slides up to his throat, not squeezing, just holding, feeling his pulse hammer under my thumb. His eyes fly open, locking with mine, and I see trust there. Surrender. It pushes me over the edge.

I thrust one last time, burying myself deep as my knot swells to its full size, locking us together.

Devon cries out as his orgasm hits, his body clamping down around me, milking me.

The rhythmic pulse of his inner walls around my knot rips my own release from me, and I come with a guttural groan, filling him in long, hot pulses.

We stay like that, frozen, locked together. Then he collapses, boneless and spent. I carefully shift us onto our sides, my knot still lodged inside him, binding us.

His eyes are closed, his face relaxed in a way I’ve never seen. All the sharp edges are gone. He looks younger, and something fierce and protective roars to life in my chest.

My hand strokes his back before I can stop myself. Words of protection slip out, too low for him to hear. The walls I’ve built for six years, brick by painful brick, are crumbling to dust. I should be running. I should be terrified. Instead, I pull him closer.

I should be thinking about how to get out of this, how to rebuild my defenses.

But as his breathing evens out into sleep, his body warm and trusting against mine, I can’t make myself be the person I’ve been since Ethan died—the guy who keeps his door locked, who hasn’t let anyone stay the night in six years.

I press my nose into his hair, breathing in our mingled scents. For the first time since the accident, I can breathe without it hurting. The constant, grinding noise of guilt that’s been my shadow for so long is gone, replaced by a warmth that feels dangerously like hope.

My entire life has been a silent prayer for punishment, but this feels like forgiveness.