Page 15 of His Problem Alpha

Alex

" S o we're clear," I say, my voice a low rasp, scraped raw from the inside out. "This isn't... that."

Devon is still on the kitchen counter, legs dangling. My hands left his hair a mess, and my mouth left marks on his neck that are already starting to bloom. His eyes are guarded, the vulnerability from moments ago locked away.

"That?" he asks, one eyebrow arching. The sarcasm is back, his armor sliding into place. "You'll have to be more specific, Matthews."

I run a hand through my hair, trying to pull my scattered thoughts together. "A relationship. This isn't... that."

"Right." He slides off the counter, wincing as his feet hit the floor. Seeing him wince sends a possessive thrill through me. I try to smother it immediately. "Because we hate each other."

"We don't—" I stop myself. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" He's pulling his jeans back up, his hands not quite steady. "Because five minutes ago you were fucking me on our kitchen counter, and now you're standing there looking like someone died."

The words hit too close, and I flinch. Devon notices—of course he does, he notices everything—and his face softens.

"Sorry," he mutters. "That was... I didn't mean—"

"It's fine." I cut him off. I don't want his pity. I don't want to explain. "Look, we should talk about this. About what happens next."

He crosses his arms, a defensive move that makes him look smaller. "What's there to talk about? We fucked. It was good. End of story."

His words sting. I wasn't expecting that. "Is that what you want? For it to be a one-time thing?"

His eyes flick to mine, then away. "Is that what you want?"

We’re just circling each other, two wounded animals afraid to show any weakness.

"I think..." I force my voice to stay calm, even though everything inside me is screaming. "I think we could have a practical arrangement."

"A practical arrangement," he repeats, his voice flat. "Sounds romantic."

"That's the point. It's not romantic. It's practical." I lean against the counter, trying to look casual when my heart is hammering my ribs. "We're both adults. We have needs. We're already living together. It makes sense."

His eyes narrow. "So what, we're fuck buddies now? Roommates with benefits?"

"If you want to call it that."

"What would you call it?"

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile. "A mutually beneficial arrangement. You go into heat, I help you through it. We both get physical release when we need it. Simple."

He studies me, his expression unreadable. Then he laughs, a short, sharp sound with no humor in it. "Right. Simple. Because that's what this feels like."

"It can be," I insist, trying to convince myself. "We just need some ground rules."

"Ground rules." He shakes his head, but I see him considering it. "Like what?"

"Like... exclusivity." The word comes out more possessive than I meant. I clear my throat. "For health reasons. We should be exclusive while this arrangement lasts."

The thought of Devon with another alpha makes a primitive rage claw at my insides. I feel my hands balling into fists and force them to relax.

"Exclusive but not romantic," Devon says slowly, testing the words. "That's rule one?"

I nod, relieved. "Rule two: no sleeping over. We keep our own spaces."

The words feel wrong as I say them. The thought of Devon leaving my bed, of not having his warmth to chase away the nightmares, creates a physical ache deep in my chest. But it's necessary. Distance is safe. Distance keeps people alive.

"No sleeping over," he repeats. I think I see disappointment in his eyes before it’s gone. "What else?"

"No scent marking outside of... when we're together." This one is the hardest. Even now, I'm fighting the urge to pull him close, to rub my face against his neck and cover him in my scent so everyone knows. "It sends the wrong message."

His eyes widen. "You've been scent marking me?"

"Not intentionally," I mutter, looking away. "It's just... our scents. They're compatible."

"Compatible," he echoes.

"Yeah. It's just biology." I look at him again. "Your scent... it calms my alpha."

I didn't mean to admit that. It’s too honest. The words hang in the air between us.

A quick flash of pride and pleasure crosses his face before he schools it back into careful neutrality. "So my scent calms you down? That's... interesting."

"It's just biology," I repeat. We both know it's a lie.

"Right. Biology." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up more. "So those are the rules? Exclusive but not romantic, no sleepovers, no scent marking outside of sex?"

"Yeah. Those work for you?"

He hesitates, then nods. "Sure. Why not? It's practical, like you said."

"Good. That's... good." We're standing in our kitchen, the air still thick with the smell of sex, negotiating a fuck-buddy arrangement like it's a business contract.

"Well," Devon finally says. "I should probably shower. And you should probably clean up the..." He gestures to the floor where the bowl of fruit still lies scattered.

"Yeah. I'll take care of it."

He nods and turns to leave. I watch him go, my eyes tracking the slight hitch in his step, the way he touches the marks on his neck. My marks. I feel a purr of satisfaction deep in my chest.

Mine , it whispers. Mine mine mine.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. He's not mine. This is an arrangement. Practical. Simple. Safe.

I repeat the words like a mantra as I clean up, as I shower, as I try and fail to work on my thesis. They feel hollow, a flimsy shield against the truth I'm desperately trying to ignore.

I want him. Not just his body. All of him. And that terrifies me more than anything.

***

The apartment is quiet that night. Too quiet.

The hum of the refrigerator sounds like a jet engine.

The tick of the clock on the wall sounds like a hammer.

I need to work. My thesis deadline is looming, and I've barely made any progress.

But I can't focus. All I can see is the kitchen counter, the sounds Devon made, the way his body felt wrapped around mine.

A soft knock on my door pulls me from my thoughts. My heart spikes.

"Yeah?" My voice comes out rough.

The door opens slowly. Devon stands there, a silhouette against the dim hallway light.

He’s wearing a faded t-shirt and sweatpants.

His hair is still damp from his shower, curling at the ends.

He looks uncertain, vulnerable, and my chest aches.

Relief floods through me at the sight of him, followed immediately by panic. I want him here so badly it scares me.

"Hey," he says, his voice soft. "I was just... I thought maybe..."

He trails off, nervous. Devon Garcia, all razor-sharp wit, is standing in my doorway looking unsure of himself. Protective instinct surges through me.

"Come here," I say, the words escaping before I can think.

He hesitates, then steps into my room. The door clicks shut. We've crossed a line.

"This doesn't break the rules, right?" he asks, hovering near the door. "Since we're not... sleeping."

"Right," I agree, even though we both know this is bullshit. "Not sleeping."

He nods and takes another step closer. I breathe in his scent—clean soap, a hint of citrus, and underneath it all, that unique Devon smell. My mouth waters. My body responds instantly.

"So," he says, gesturing between us. "How does this work? Do we just... start?"

His awkwardness is endearing, a stark contrast to the omega who challenged me in the kitchen. This is Devon without his armor. He trusts me enough to show me this side of himself. Something fierce and protective unfurls in my chest.

"Come here," I repeat, softer this time.

He approaches the bed where I'm sitting and stops just out of reach. I hold out my hand, an invitation. After a moment, he takes it. I pull him closer until he's standing between my legs.

"We go at your pace," I tell him, my thumbs tracing circles on the inside of his wrists. His pulse jumps. "Whatever you want."

"What if I don't know what I want?" His voice is a whisper.

"Then we figure it out together." I tug him gently until he's straddling my lap, his knees on either side of my hips. "We explore."

His breath hitches. His hands rest on my shoulders for balance. I feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, the slight tremor in his thighs.

"Explore," he repeats, his eyes darkening. "I like the sound of that."

I lean in, my lips brushing against his.

The kiss is softer than anything we've shared before.

He melts against me with a small sound that makes my heart stutter.

His hands slide into my hair, pulling me closer as the kiss deepens.

Unlike our desperate collision in the kitchen, this is deliberate—a slow burn building with each second.

I take my time, mapping his mouth, memorizing the small sounds he makes when I nip at his lower lip.

We break apart, both breathing hard. His pupils are huge, just a thin ring of brown around black. His lips are red and swollen. He looks drunk on sensation, and knowing I did that to him makes me want to do it again.

"Lie back," I murmur, guiding him onto the bed. He goes willingly. I move over him, caging his body with mine. "Give me your hands."

He lifts his arms without hesitation. I gather his wrists in one of my hands and pin them gently above his head. He's open, vulnerable, completely at my mercy. My alpha instincts howl with satisfaction—he trusts me enough to surrender.

"Is this okay?" I ask, needing to be sure.

He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. "Yes."

"If you want me to stop, at any point, just say so."

"I won't want you to stop," he says, a hint of his sass returning. "But noted."

I smile and lower my head to his neck. I breathe him in. My nose traces the curve of his throat to the sensitive spot just below his ear. When my lips close over it, he gasps, his body arching into mine.

"You remember," he murmurs, surprised.