Page 21 of His Problem Alpha
Devon
“ F or a guy who can’t be bothered to rinse a dish, you’re surprisingly territorial about who buys the coffee.”
Alex looks up from the French press, his hands pausing mid-grind. The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a smile or a scowl—with him, it’s always a fifty-fifty shot. “There’s a system to coffee. You can’t just buy whatever’s on sale.”
“A system,” I echo, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. “Is that what we’re calling your pretentious coffee snobbery now?”
He turns back to the grinder. “Says the guy who once lectured me for forty-five minutes about the difference between serif and sans-serif fonts.”
“That’s different. That’s my job.”
“And this,” he says, gesturing to the beans, “is keeping us both alive.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no heat in it.
This is us now—the easy banter, the domestic rhythm we’ve fallen into since the pregnancy scare last week.
The rules we set are a fucking joke. No sleeping over?
I haven’t slept in my own bed in days. No scent marking?
He does it constantly, absently, like he doesn’t even realize—a brush of his wrist against my neck when he passes me in the hallway, his nose in my hair when we wake up tangled in his sheets.
I should be running for the hills. My heart is racing, but not with fear—with something worse. Hope. And that terrifies me more than anything.
I watch him from the doorway, taking in every detail like I’m trying to memorize him.
His hair is still damp from the shower, curling at the edges.
He’s wearing a faded Radiohead t-shirt and gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips.
His feet are bare. There’s a small, silvery scar on his left ankle I’ve never noticed before.
He moves through the kitchen with an easy confidence, reaching for mugs without looking, his body relaxed in a way it never is around other people. This is Alex in his natural habitat—focused, methodical, at peace.
I should say something snarky and back away. That would be the smart thing to do. Protect myself before this gets any deeper.
Instead, I cross the kitchen and slide my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my face between his shoulder blades.
He smells like soap and coffee and sleep-warm skin.
He stiffens for a fraction of a second—he always does, like affection is a language he’s still learning—before relaxing into my touch, a soft sigh escaping him.
“What’s this for?” he asks, his voice a low rumble I feel through his back.
“Nothing,” I mumble into his shirt. “Just... coffee gratitude.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through both of us. His hand comes up to cover mine where it rests on his stomach. “You’re welcome.”
We stay like that for a moment, my cheek pressed against his back, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my wrist. The morning sun slants through the kitchen window, painting everything in soft gold.
The coffee grinder whirs. A car honks outside.
It’s so normal, so stupidly domestic, that my chest actually aches. When did this become what I wanted?
This can’t last. Nothing this good ever does. I learned that lesson when my dad walked out, when my first boyfriend cheated, when every good thing eventually fell apart.
But for now, I let myself have it. I breathe him in, memorizing the moment, storing it away for when it inevitably ends.
---
“Richard Shaw called,” I say later that evening, looking up from my laptop. “He wants to expand the project. They’re adding a complete website overhaul to the rebrand.”
Alex is stirring something on the stove that smells like garlic and herbs. Sunday night cooking has become a ritual neither of us acknowledges. He turns, his expression unreadable. “That’s good, right?”
“It’s huge,” I say, unable to keep the excitement from my voice. “It means at least three more months of steady work. Maybe more if they like what I do.”
He sets the wooden spoon down with deliberate care. “You’ll be working directly with him?”
“Yeah, mostly. He wants to be hands-on with this project.” I tilt my head, studying him.
The change is subtle, but I see it. The easy set of his shoulders has hardened.
The air, which had been warm and fragrant with cooking garlic, suddenly feels charged, and a low, almost inaudible rumble starts in his chest. His scent, which had been calm and content, sharpens with something I’m starting to recognize: possession. “Why?”
He crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter. His jaw works like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t want to say. “He’s an alpha.”
I blink. “Yes? So are a lot of my clients.”
“He’s an unmated alpha,” Alex clarifies, his voice dropping lower. “Who clearly thinks highly of your work.”
It takes me a second to understand what he’s implying. When I do, a startled laugh escapes me. “Richard Shaw is happily married with adult children. He’s also, like, sixty.”
Alex’s eyes narrow. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means he’s not interested in me like that,” I say, incredulous. “He’s a client. A really important one.”
“I’ve seen how alphas look at talented omegas,” Alex says, his voice tight. “Like they’re something to collect. To own.”
Part of me wants to be offended. To tell him how ridiculous he’s being, that I’m a professional who doesn’t need his caveman alpha bullshit. But I can't suppress the hot, traitorous thrill that shoots through me. My pulse jumps, and I know he can hear it—his nostrils flare, his eyes darkening.
“He better not be getting ideas about you,” Alex says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sends heat pooling in my stomach.
“And if he is?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. “What would you do about it?”
Alex pushes away from the counter, crossing the kitchen in three long strides. He crowds me against the wall, not touching me yet, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His scent sharpens, turning spicy and rich with possessive intent that makes my knees weak.
“I’d remind him,” Alex says, his voice a low growl that vibrates through me, “exactly who you belong to.”
The feminist in me wants to bristle. I’m not property. I don’t belong to anyone. I’m an independent omega with my own career and my own life. I open my mouth to tell him exactly that.
“You,” I whisper instead, the word escaping before I can stop it. “I belong to you.”
Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, relief, hunger. His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “Say it again.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is dangerous territory. This isn’t our arrangement. This is something else entirely, something with teeth and claws that could tear me apart if I let it.
“I belong to you,” I repeat, my voice stronger this time. “Only you.”
He makes a sound—half growl, half groan—before his mouth crashes down on mine.
The kiss is possessive, claiming, his tongue pushing past my lips like he’s staking territory.
His hands grip my hips, pulling me against him, and I can feel how hard he is already, his cock pressing insistently against my stomach.
“Bedroom,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Now.”
He doesn’t wait for my answer, just takes my hand and pulls me down the hallway. His room (our room now, really) is bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. He kicks the door shut behind us and turns to me, his eyes dark and intent.
“Take off your clothes,” he commands, his voice a low rumble that makes me shiver.
I comply, my fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers. He watches me, his gaze heavy and hot on my skin as I strip. When I’m naked, he’s still fully clothed, and the power imbalance makes my breath catch.
“On the bed,” he says. “On your back.”
I move to the bed, lying down as instructed. The sheets are cool against my heated skin. Alex follows, looming over me, his knees bracketing my hips. He pins my wrists above my head with one large hand, his grip firm but not painful.
“Who do you belong to?” he asks, his voice a low, dangerous purr.
My throat is dry. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “You,” I whisper. “I belong to you, Alex.”
I feel a pleased rumble against me when I press against his chest. “That’s right,” he says, leaning down to nose along my jawline. “Mine. My omega.”
He scents me thoroughly, deliberately—rubbing his wrists over my neck, my chest, my stomach.
The glands on his throat press against mine, marking me with his scent.
It’s primal and possessive and makes me dizzy with want.
My body responds instantly, slick gathering between my legs, my dick hardening against my stomach.
“You smell like mine,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. “But I want everyone to see it, too.”
His mouth finds the sensitive junction of my neck and shoulder, and he bites down—not hard enough to break skin, but firm enough to leave a mark.
I gasp, arching into the pressure. He soothes the sting with his tongue before moving to a new spot, leaving a trail of marks across my collarbone, my shoulders, the base of my throat.
Each bite hurts and feels amazing at the same time, making my cock throb.
“Alex,” I gasp, struggling against his grip on my wrists. “Please.”
“Please what?” he asks, his voice a low rumble against my skin. “Tell me what you need, omega.”
“Touch me,” I beg, beyond pride now. “I need you to touch me.”
He releases my wrists and sits back, his eyes raking over me. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands skimming down my sides. “So perfect for me.”
He takes his time undressing, each revealed inch of skin making my mouth water. When he’s finally naked, he settles between my legs, his cock hard and flushed against his stomach. He’s big—thick and long in a way that should be intimidating but just makes me desperate to have him inside me.
“Turn over,” he commands, his voice rough with desire. “On your hands and knees.”