Page 19 of Swipe My Alpha
"Let me," he says. "Let me take my time."
"You and your time."
"I told you in that first message. I keep my promises."
He settles between my thighs and puts his mouth on me. Licks up the shaft of my cock, slow, tasting, his eyes on mine the whole time. Takes me in and sucks, soft and deep, his hand wrapped around the base, his thumb stroking. It's not urgent. It's devotional. Like he's memorizing this. I thread my fingers through his hair and let my head fall back into the pillow that smells like both of us.
He pulls off my cock and moves lower. Pushes my thighs apart, presses a kiss to the inside of each one. I'm already wet, slick gathering between my legs, and when his mouth finds me there I moan so loud it echoes off the walls. He licks me open, tonguepressing inside, lapping at the slick like he's starving for it, and I grab fistfuls of the nest blankets and hold on.
"Rhys. God. Please."
He works me open with his fingers while he licks and sucks and I'm shaking, soaking the sheets under me, my cock hard and aching against my stomach. He slides two fingers inside me and crooks them and I almost come right there, my hips jerking, a sob catching in my throat.
"You're beautiful," he says against my thigh, and he sounds ruined by it. "You're so beautiful. I can't believe you're here. I can't believe you stayed."
"I'm not going anywhere." It comes out before I can filter it. Honest and raw and I mean it. I mean it in a way I've never meant anything.
He moves up my body, settling between my legs, and I feel his cock press against me, thick and hard and hot. He pushes in slow and I take him, my body opening around him like this is what it was always supposed to do, and we both exhale at the same time.
He doesn't move right away. Just stays buried inside me, his forehead pressed against mine, breathing with me. I can feel him everywhere. His cock filling me up, his chest against mine, his heartbeat matching the rhythm of the bond.
"Move," I whisper. "I want to feel you."
He moves. Long, slow strokes that reach deep, his hips rolling into mine, his mouth on my neck, my jaw, the corner of my lips. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him in deeper with every thrust. He groans into my mouth and I swallow it. Give it back to him. We trade sounds and breath and heat in the quiet of our nest and nothing has ever felt like this. Nothing has ever been this unhurried, this safe, this deliberately good.
His knot starts to build. I feel it catching with each thrust, swelling, stretching me wider, and instead of the desperate frenzy from the hotel this feels like settling in. Like cominghome. He pushes deeper and his knot presses past the rim and locks us together and the fullness of it, the completeness, rolls through me like a wave.
I come with his name on my lips. My cock pulses between us, untouched, and he follows me over, groaning my name back, his knot pulsing inside me as he fills me up. He buries his face in my neck, mouth pressed against the claiming bite, and breathes and breathes and breathes.
We stay like that. Knotted together in the nest I built in his apartment with his key in my jacket on the floor. His arms around me, my face against his chest, the bond humming between us like a song in a language I'm still learning.
I should say something funny. I should crack a joke about his throw pillow situation or the droopy plant or the fact that his bookshelf is organized by color, which is objectively wrong.
I don't. I just lie there, warm and full and held, and think, very quietly, that I could stay here forever. And for once, that thought doesn't scare me.
It just feels true.
Rhys
Jude is lying on his stomach in the nest, barefoot, scrolling his phone, wearing my flannel over boxers and nothing else. The flannel is too big on him, the sleeves hanging past his wrists, the hem riding up to show a strip of golden-brown thigh. He looks like a painting of something I don't deserve.
"You're staring," he says without looking up.
"You're in my shirt."
"Our shirt. I live here now. Everything in this apartment is communally owned." He rolls onto his back and grins at me upside down. "You look fancy. Is that a new button-down?"
"It's the same button-down I always wear to department things."
"You should unbutton it more. Show some chest. Let Albright know what she's working with."
"I'm not trying to seduce my department head, Jude."
"Why not? It would make faculty meetings more interesting." He stretches, arms above his head, and the flannel rides up past his stomach. He knows exactly what he's doing. He always knows exactly what he's doing.
I lean down and kiss him. He hums against my mouth, his fingers catching the collar of my shirt, and for a second I consider skipping the mixer entirely. Staying here. Crawling into the nest and burying my face in his neck and letting the department fend for itself.
"Go," he says, pushing me gently. "Be professional. Shake hands. Talk about carbon or whatever."
