Page 14 of His Problem Alpha

"Like I'm losing my mind," I admit, the words scraping my throat raw. "I can't work. I can't sleep. All I can think about is the way your voice dropped when you told me I was perfect, the way your hands felt when you—"

"When I what?" He's even closer now, backing me against the counter. His eyes are dark, predatory.

"When you looked at me like I mattered," I whisper.

Something breaks in his expression. "You think I want to remember how you begged for me?" he growls, his voice a low, vicious snarl. "How you fell apart and screamed my name?"

He means to hurt me with those words. Instead, they send a jolt of heat straight through me, settling low in my gut. I shove him back, landing a surprisingly solid blow to his chest. His eyes widen in shock.

"Oh, I'm sorry, is that what this is about?" I snap, my eyes blazing. "You think I want to spend every second remembering how fucking gentle you were? How you held me like I was something precious when you think I'm just an annoying bastard you're stuck with?"

When I say "gentle," something in him breaks. His pupils blow wide, leaving just a thin ring of green. For a moment, he looks wrecked, exposed in a way I've never seen before. Then his control snaps.

He surges forward, slamming me back against the counter. His mouth crashes down on mine, and it's not a kiss—it's a battle. It's all teeth and tongue and desperate need. I bite his lower lip hard enough to taste blood. He growls, and I feel the sound rumble against me.

His hand comes up to grip my throat. Not choking me, but a possessive hold that tilts my head back, forcing me to meet his eyes. The message is clear: You're not looking away this time.

"Is this what you want?" he growls against my mouth. "You want me to be rough? To show you how much I've been losing my fucking mind thinking about you?"

"Yes," I gasp, my hands fisting in his shirt. "Show me. Make me believe it."

He lifts me effortlessly onto the counter.

A bowl of fruit crashes to the floor, apples thumping and rolling across the tile.

Neither of us cares. His hand fists in my hair, angling my head for a better angle as his other hand grips my hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

I'll have marks tomorrow. The thought makes me moan.

The cold granite of the counter seeps through my jeans, a stark contrast to the heat building between us.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice dark with want. "So desperate for it. For me."

"Shut up," I hiss, yanking him closer by his belt loops. "Less talking, more fucking."

He laughs, a rough, broken sound. "So demanding." His hands go to the button of my jeans, practically ripping it open in his haste. "Lift up."

I arch my hips, letting him drag my jeans and underwear down in one swift motion. The cool air hits my overheated skin, making me shiver. I'm already hard and leaking. My body responds to him with embarrassing eagerness.

"Fuck, Devon," he breathes, his eyes raking over me. "Look at you."

I could feel exposed, vulnerable. Instead, I feel powerful. Wanted. I spread my legs wider, a deliberate invitation. "Are you going to do something about it, or just stare?"

His eyes darken. "Mouthy little omega," he growls, his hands working at his own jeans. "Always have a comeback, don't you?"

The sight of him, hard and flushed and ready for me, makes my mouth water. "Not always," I admit, reaching for him. "Not when you're inside me."

He groans, the sound dragged from deep in his chest. "Is that what you want? Me inside you?"

"Yes," I hiss, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him closer. "Now, Alex. I swear to god, if you make me wait—"

He cuts me off with another bruising kiss, his fingers finding my entrance. I'm already slick, my body producing enough natural lubrication that his fingers slide in easily. The stretch burns in the best way, my body remembering him, welcoming him back.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" he growls, crooking his fingers to hit that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. "To be used by the alpha you hate?"

I gasp, my head falling back as pleasure spikes through me. "I hate that I do," I admit, the words torn from me. "I hate how much I need this. Need you."

He withdraws his fingers, replacing them with the blunt head of his cock.

The first push inside is a shock of pleasure-pain that makes me cry out.

He's big, stretching me in ways that border on too much, but my body remembers him.

Wants him. The shock of fullness is almost too much, a burning, stretching sensation that silences the angry buzz in my head.

"Fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. "You feel so good. So tight. So perfect for me."

The praise hits me like a physical blow, making me clench around him. He notices, because of course he does. His eyes narrow, a knowing smile curving his mouth.

"You still like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his hips starting a slow, devastating rhythm. "Being told how good you are. How perfect you feel wrapped around my cock."

"Shut up," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Just—harder. Please."

He obliges, his hips snapping forward with enough force to rattle the dishes in the cabinet behind us.

The rhythm is brutal, punishing, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside me—my prostate—that makes stars burst behind my eyes.

There’s no thought, no witty comeback, just pure sensation.

The sound of our bodies slapping together echoes in the small kitchen, a wet, percussive beat against the hum of the fridge.

I can smell the forgotten coffee brewing on the machine, a bitter scent under the musky aroma of our sex.

I'm making sounds I didn't know I could make—high, desperate whines that would mortify me if I had any capacity for shame left.

"That's it," he growls, his hand sliding from my throat to cup my jaw. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel."

I'm close already, embarrassingly so. It's been a week of torture, a week of phantom sensations and unsatisfied need. My body is wound tight, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

"Alex," I gasp, my voice breaking on his name. "I'm going to—"

"Not yet," he commands, his thumb pressing against my lower lip. "Look at me first. I want to see your face when you come."

I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze. What I see there knocks the breath from my lungs. There's heat, yes, and lust, but something else too—something raw and vulnerable that makes my chest ache.

"Now," he says, his voice softening. "Come for me, Devon. Show me."

His hand wraps around my cock, stroking once, twice, and I'm gone. My orgasm tears through me with such force that my vision whites out. I cry out his name, my nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood. I can't stop myself.

He follows a moment later, his head thrown back, a guttural sound ripped from his throat as he pulses inside me. The sensation of being filled triggers another smaller aftershock that leaves me trembling and gasping.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. We're locked together—not just our bodies, but something deeper I can't face right now.

Alex's weight presses me into the counter, his breath hot and ragged against my neck.

The air is thick with sex and sweat and something new—something that feels dangerously like hope.

"Devon," he finally murmurs, his voice rough. "I—"

"Don't," I cut him off, pressing my fingers to his lips. "Don't say it was a mistake. Don't say it was just biology. Not again."

He pulls back enough to meet my eyes, his expression unguarded in a way I've never seen before. "I wasn't going to say that."

"What were you going to say?"

He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. "That I've been losing my mind this week. That I can't stop thinking about you. That I'm terrified of what that means."

The admission hangs in the air between us, raw and honest and terrifying. I should say something witty, something that puts distance between us. But for once in my life, I don't have a comeback.

Instead, I lean forward and press my forehead to his, breathing him in.