Page 11 of His Problem Alpha

Devon

T he sheets are tangled and damp, and they smell like him—ozone, coffee, and something so deeply alpha it makes my teeth ache.

I blink, and for the first time in days, my head feels clear.

The desperate, clawing need that’s consumed me for what feels like an eternity has faded to a dull, throbbing ache deep in my muscles.

Sunlight filters through the blinds, casting thin stripes across Alex’s sleeping form beside me.

My body feels heavy, used in ways I’ve never experienced before. I can finally think again.

And that’s the problem.

The memories hit me all at once, each one more mortifying than the last. Me, begging. Whimpering. Clawing at him like a feral animal. Spreading my legs and pleading for his knot.

Fuck.

I squeeze my eyes shut. God, I wish I could just disappear right now. Eighteen months of being the sarcastic, untouchable roommate. Of acting unimpressed by everything Alex does. And I blew it all in two days.

He’s seen me at my absolute weakest. My neediest. He’s had his hands and mouth on every inch of me, has been inside my ass more times than I can count.

And I liked it. Not just the relief from the heat—I liked him .

The way he held me. The way he whispered praise against my skin.

The way he looked at me like I was something precious instead of just a convenient omega hole.

"Stop it," I mutter to myself, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. "It was biology. Instinct. It didn't mean anything."

"What didn't mean anything?"

My hands drop. Alex is awake, watching me with those intense green eyes. His voice is rough with sleep, his dark hair a chaotic mess. A dark, purplish bite mark stands out on his shoulder—my bite mark—and a traitorous jolt of possessive satisfaction shoots through me before I can squash it down.

"Nothing," I say quickly. "Just talking to myself. Bad habit."

Alex shifts, propping himself up on one elbow.

The sheet slides down, revealing his bare chest, and my eyes follow it before I can stop myself.

He's all lean muscle and sharp angles, nothing like the soft, pretty alphas I usually go for.

Angry red scratches run down his chest and back—evidence of my desperation—and the sight makes heat rise in my cheeks.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, his eyes scanning my face with an intensity that makes me want to squirm.

"Fine," I say automatically. "Better. I think it's... passing."

Something flickers across his face—disappointment? Relief? I can't tell. He reaches out, his hand hovering over my forehead like he wants to check for a fever, but stops just short of touching me.

I flinch at his hesitation. It shouldn't hurt this much, but it does. Two minutes ago, he was buried inside me. Now he can't even bring himself to touch my face.

"Good," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "That's... good."

Neither of us speaks. The longer we stay quiet, the harder it gets to say anything at all.

In a few hours, maybe less, my heat will be completely gone.

The biological imperative that brought us together will disappear.

And then what? Back to being enemies? Awkward roommates who can't look at each other?

My chest aches thinking about it, and I refuse to examine why.

Alex clears his throat. "I should probably—"

"Don't," I blurt out, my hand shooting out to grab his wrist before he can leave. "Not yet."

He freezes, his eyes dropping to where my fingers circle his wrist. I need to let go. Make a joke. Say something cutting. Put some distance between us. That's what I always do. But I can't think of a single fucking thing to say.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean forward and press my lips to his.

It's nothing like our previous kisses. Those were frantic, desperate, driven by heat and need. This is... a question. Soft. Uncertain. Terrifying.

For one heart-stopping moment, Alex doesn't move. He's completely still, not even breathing, and I'm about to pull back, mortified, when his hand comes up to cup the back of my neck. A low, possessive growl rumbles in his chest, and then he's kissing me back with an intensity that steals my breath.

His tongue slides against mine, and I forget how to breathe. It's not gentle anymore. It's hungry and demanding, and I melt into it, a soft sound escaping my throat.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, just a thin ring of green around endless black. His scent has changed—sharper, headier, with that distinctive musk of aroused alpha.

"Devon," he says, my name a rough scrape in his throat. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know," I admit, the honesty startling us both. "I just... I wanted to."

His eyes search mine, looking for something I'm not sure I can give him. "Your heat is almost over," he says carefully. "You don't need this anymore."

"Maybe I want it anyway."

I can't believe I just said that out loud. I feel naked, exposed.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice dropping to that low alpha register that makes me shiver. "Because once your heat is gone, you can't blame biology anymore. This would be a choice."

"I know," I whisper.

For a moment, he just looks at me, and I can see the war raging behind his eyes. Then something shifts, resolves, and he's moving, rolling me onto my back, his body covering mine.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Tell me this isn't what you want."

I arch up against him, my hands sliding into his hair. "Don't stop," I breathe. "Please, Alex."

That's all it takes. His mouth crashes down on mine, hungry and demanding. It's different from before—no frantic heat-driven need, just pure, deliberate want. His hands map my body with a reverence that makes my chest ache, like he's memorizing every inch of me.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my skin. "So fucking perfect."

The praise makes me gasp. Why does it affect me so much? I should hate it, should bristle at the cliché, but instead I arch into it, craving more.

Alex notices, because of course he does. A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face. "You like that," he says, not a question. "You like being told how good you are."

I turn my face away, embarrassment burning in my cheeks, but he catches my chin, turning me back to face him.

"Don't hide from me," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "Not now. Not after everything."

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I can't breathe. There's something in his gaze—something raw and open and terrifying—that makes my heart stutter in my chest.

"I'm not hiding," I whisper.

His smile softens, turning into something that makes my chest ache. "Good," he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth. "Because I want to see you. All of you."

His hands slide down my body, tracing the curve of my hip, the inside of my thigh. I'm still slick from the fading heat, still open and ready for him. When his fingers brush against my entrance, I gasp, my back arching off the bed.

"Alex," I breathe, my voice breaking on his name.

"I've got you," he murmurs, his fingers sliding inside me with a gentle pressure that makes me whimper. "Just let me make you feel good."

He takes his time, opening me up with a patience that borders on torture.

He finds the slick, sensitive skin just inside my hole and circles it with his thumb, making me writhe.

By the time he finally positions himself between my legs, I'm a trembling, desperate mess, but not from heat—from want. Pure, human want.

"Look at me," he commands, and I do, my eyes locking with his as he pushes inside me in one slow, deliberate thrust.

Oh.

It's different without the heat driving me crazy. I feel everything—the stretch, the burn, how full he makes me. He moves with a slow, grinding rhythm that hits something deep inside me, my prostate, making sparks dance behind my eyes.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. "Take all of me."

I try to look away—the intensity in his gaze is too much—but he catches my face between his hands, holding me still.

"Don't," he says, his voice rough. "I want to see you. I want to watch you come apart for me."

The words send a shiver down my spine. I've never felt so exposed, so seen. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

"Alex," I gasp, my hands clutching at his shoulders. "I can't—it's too much—"

"You can take it," he says, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. "You're doing so well, omega. So perfect for me."

The praise pushes me higher, closer to the edge. My body is tightening around him, drawing him deeper. And then I feel it—the first hint of his knot beginning to swell, the thick ridge of it catching on my rim with each thrust.

My thoughts short-circuit. Every instinct I have screams trap . My body, which has been begging for this, suddenly rebels. I try to buck him off, a strangled sound of pure, animal terror escaping me. I’m pinned. He’s inside me, changing, growing, locking me to him.

"No—wait—" I gasp, the words nonsensical as I struggle against him.

"Shh," Alex's voice is a low growl, his hands clamping down on my hips, stilling my struggles. He doesn't let go. He holds me through it. "Breathe for me, Devon. Look at me. Don't pull away. I've got you."

His command cuts through the red haze of fear. I force my eyes to his, and the raw possession there is terrifying, but it's steady. He’s not letting me go. And as he keeps speaking, his voice a low anchor in the storm, the panic recedes, replaced by a wave of something else: absolute surrender.

"That's it," he murmurs, his thrusts becoming more deliberate, more focused as I relax under his hands. "Going to fill you up. Keep you full of me."

The knot swells, stretching me to the point of pain, then past it into a fullness that borders on transcendent. It's too much—physically, emotionally. I feel owned, claimed, taken in a way that goes beyond the physical.

I break. There’s no other word for it. I just break.

I scream as I come, my body clamping down around his knot. My nails rake down his back, drawing blood, but he doesn't flinch. He just holds me tighter, his hips grinding against mine as his own release hits.

"Devon," he groans, my name a prayer on his lips. "Fuck, Devon."

The sensation of him pulsing inside me, filling me, triggers another smaller orgasm that leaves me trembling and gasping. We're locked together, physically and in some other way I can't name, can't face.

And then, to my horror, I start to cry.

I can't stop the ugly, heaving sobs that wrack my entire body.

I'm angry at myself for wanting this, at him for making me want it, at the whole fucked-up situation.

But beneath the anger is something worse—pure terror at how exposed I feel, how much I suddenly need him.

My jokes, my sarcasm—they've always kept me safe. Until now.

"Devon?" Alarm colors his voice. "Did I hurt you?"

I shake my head, unable to form words through the sobs. I try to turn away, to hide my face, but his knot keeps us locked together, forces me to stay right where I am.

"Hey," he says, his voice gentling. "Hey, it's okay. I've got you."

He shifts us carefully onto our sides, his knot still firmly lodged inside me, and pulls me against his chest. One hand strokes my hair, the other rubs soothing circles on my back. He doesn't try to make me stop crying. He just holds me, murmuring soft, soothing words against my temple.

"It's okay," he whispers. "Let it out. I'm right here."

I cry until I'm empty, until there's nothing left but exhaustion and a strange, hollow peace. Alex's knot has begun to subside, but he doesn't pull away. He keeps holding me, his heartbeat steady under my ear.

"I'm sorry," I finally manage, my voice raw from crying. "I don't know what that was."

"Don't apologize," he says, his hand still stroking my hair. "It happens sometimes. After intense... experiences."

I laugh, the sound watery and weak. "Is that what we're calling it? An 'experience'?"

I feel him smile against my hair. "What would you call it?"

"A category five fuck-up," I say automatically, my voice still thick. "I mean—"

He cuts me off, not with words, but by pulling me tighter. The silence that follows is heavy. This is the part where I'm supposed to make a joke, and I can't think of a single one.

"What happens... after?" I finally ask, the question hanging in the air like smoke.

I can feel the tension in his shoulders. He's as lost as I am. "I don't know," he finally admits, his voice rough. "I'm not... good at this."

"Good at what?"

"This," he says, and his hand tightens on my back. The meaning is clear. The caring. The staying.

My throat feels tight. "Yeah," I whisper. "Me neither."

He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. It's not a solution, but it feels like a promise to try.

"Get some sleep," he murmurs. "We're not going anywhere."

I want to protest, want to make him promise he won't disappear while I'm sleeping, but exhaustion is already pulling me under. My eyes grow heavy, my limbs loose and warm. I curl against him, breathing him in—bitter coffee, sharp ozone, and that deep alpha musk that now feels like home.

The last thing I register before sleep claims me is the feeling of his arms tightening around me, holding me close like something precious. Something worth keeping.

For the first time in my life, I don't want to be alone, and that's the most terrifying feeling of all.