Page 26 of Rebound My Alpha
He looks at the pen. Looks at me. A quick, braced flicker crosses his face, but then he reaches down and pulls up the hem of his shirt. He exposes the pale strip of skin along his left hip, right where the waistband of his black skinny jeans sits low. He doesn't say a word. Just holds the shirt and watches me.
I lean over him.
The chair puts my face inches from his skin. I brace my left hand against his hip to steady the canvas, the pen in myright. His body heat radiates against my cheek. I can smell him perfectly now—warm and sharp beneath the shop's antiseptic.
I start drawing.
This is what I'm good at. My hand knows what to do even when my brain is short-circuiting. I move the pen across his skin in clean, steady lines, building a geometric design that echoes his poster art. The tip catches the fine hairs on his hip, and he shivers once before going completely still.
No sarcasm. No running his mouth. Just his steady breathing and his fingers gripping the armrests. A flush creeps up from his collar, making the freckles on his shoulders stand out.
My left thumb strokes once across his hipbone. It’s not a steadying touch; it’s just me wanting to feel his skin. His breath hitches for half a second before evening out again.
His scent spikes. It’s subtle, but I catch it—a deeper, warmer thread cutting through the sharp edges. And right at the edge of my vision, I can see the faint tension at the front of his jeans.
Fuck.
My gut tightens, a hot, immediate pool of arousal hitting me straight in the dick. I force my hand to stay steady on the next line. I don’t look up. If I acknowledge it, if I let my cock do the talking right now, this turns into something else. And he came here for this quiet, careful thing. I am not going to be the guy who ruins it.
I draw around his freckles. I’ve been sketching them from memory for months, but the real ones are lighter, more copper. The ink curves around them, making them part of the piece. I take ten, fifteen minutes on a design that should take five. It’s the most honest I’ve been with him since the night I left. I can’t say the words, but my hand is on his body, and I'm hoping he can feel what I'm trying to say.
I finally pull back. The dark ink sits on his pale skin, already softening at the edges from his body heat. It looks like it belongs there.
I open my mouth. Something is right there on my tongue, some sentence that starts withIand ends withyou, but I swallow it down. I cap the pen.
Benji looks down at his hip. He studies it for a few seconds, tilting his head. Then he lets his shirt drop, covering it.
He doesn't wipe it off. He doesn't make a sarcastic joke. He just covers it like it's something worth keeping, and that simple fucking gesture hits me harder than a punch to the jaw.
He stands up, adjusts his jacket, and looks around the shop one last time before his eyes land on me. His expression is quiet. Almost trusting. He gives me a single, small nod.
"See you," he says.
And then he walks out.
The door clicks shut. I stand there in the empty shop, the pen still in my hand, his scent lingering in the air. I look down at my station. The sketchbook is still facedown.
My hands are shaking. A fine, uncontrollable tremor runs through my fingers. They were perfectly steady on his skin a minute ago. They did exactly what I needed them to do. But now that he's gone, the act drops, and I'm just standing here staring at my shaking hands, realizing the steadiness was all for him.
Benji
I’m standing outside Knox Rivera’s apartment building like a fucking creep, and the worst part is I know exactly how I got here. He dropped his cross streets in a DM three days ago—bitching about a neighbor’s dog—and I immediately pulled up the map. It’s a level of psycho behavior I’d roast anyone else for, but here I am. Combat boots on the concrete, the claiming bite a warm brand under my collar, staring up at a lit third-floor window, and trying to talk myself into pressing the buzzer.
My official excuse is that I left my jacket at the shop. My jacket is currently hanging in my closet. It’s a pathetic excuse, but the alternative is admitting that the drawing on my hip faded into nothing a week ago and I can still feel the ghost of his hands on me. The alternative is admitting the bullshit "family shit" line he fed me is sitting in my chest like a swallowed stone, and I need to see where he lives. I need to collect more pieces of the puzzle.
I hit the buzzer.
"Yeah?" he answers on the second ring.
"It's me."
Silence. Then the heavy front door clicks open. He didn't even ask why I'm here. He either trusts me way too much, or he was hoping I'd show up. Both options make me want to turn around and walk home. Both options make me step inside.
The third-floor hallway smells like cheap carpet cleaner, stale cooking oil, and Knox. His scent leaks through the gap under his door, thick and heavy. My pulse kicks up a frantic rhythm, my biology zeroing in on my mate. I grind my teeth together and tell my stupid body to shut the fuck up. We’re investigating, not nesting.
Knox pulls his door open. He’s in a faded t-shirt and grey sweats, barefoot, dark curls damp from the shower. The cocky swagger is dialed down to maybe a four. His eyes go soft for a split second before his trademark smirk catches up. He just looks like a guy in his apartment on a weeknight, and the raw normalcy of it does something dangerous to my chest.
"Lost?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe.
