Page 35 of Match My Alpha
Everyone I was afraid of telling has been told, and the world didn't end. It rearranged. And the rearrangement looks like a group chat that's going to be insufferable for the next six months, a coffee date with my best friend, and a booth in a bar that still has my seat.
I put my phone away and sit there for one more second in the quiet, just breathing. The air smells like beer and wood and the fading scent of people who love me. The secret is done, and I feel a bit lighter without it.
Milo
That evening, Callum's makes me lose my mind.
Which is stupid. We're watching some cooking competition where a guy is sobbing over a fallen soufflé, but Callum's thumb is drawing slow circles on the inside of my leg, about six inches above my knee. Every circle inches a little higher. I don't think he's noticed. But I've noticed. And my cock has definitely noticed.
We're lounging on his couch after Byrne's. The buzz of the group is still humming in my bones, making me feel lighter than I have in weeks. I'm wearing Callum's worn-out firehouse t-shirt and nothing else under the blanket. My legs are draped across his lap. The apartment is dim, smelling like his body wash, and Gerald the fern is thriving on the side table. Everything is perfectly fine. Except Callum's thumb has reached the hem of the shirt where it lies on my thigh. His fingers have hit my bare skin now.
He doesn't even look at me. His eyes are glued to the TV, his expression perfectly neutral. Like his thumb isn't currently making its way toward my dick with agonizing precision.
The circles inch higher. His thumb finds the crease where my thigh meets my hip, tracing it, unhurried and sure. I'm fully hard now, pressing against the soft cotton of the shirt. The slick is starting—that wet, heavy heat spreading between my legs, proving my body has completely bypassed my brain. The dampness soaking through. Every time I shift, the wet fabric drags over the head of my cock. It's obscene. There's nothing between his hand and my dick except three inches of air, but he's not touching where I need him to. And I'm pretty sure the bastard is doing it on purpose.
His thumb brushes the base of my cock. One stroke. Barely there. Just a whisper of rough callous against sensitive skin, and then he retreats back to the safe territory of my inner thigh. The sound that escapes me is a pathetic whimper that's going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," Callum says. He's still watching the TV. His voice is low, even, and utterly casual. Like he's offering to change the channel, not slowly dismantling me under a fleece blanket.
I don't want him to stop. I want him to grab my cock and stroke me hard and fast until I come all over his fist and his shirt and his couch. I want it right now. But saying that out loud feels about as possible as performing open-heart surgery on myself.
"Whatever you—" I start. It's the easy path. The good, accommodating omega response. I'll take what you give, I'll be grateful, and I won't demand anything because demanding makes me a burden.
His hand goes completely still. He doesn't pull away, but the circles stop. His thumb just rests on my inner thigh. The sudden lack of movement is maddening.
He waits.
The guy on the TV is crying harder now, and normally I'd feel sympathy, but I'm too busy being edged by a man whosepatience should be classified as a lethal weapon. My cock aches. Precome is already making a wet spot on the inside of his shirt. My hips do this tiny, unconscious rock that I can't stop, and he can definitely feel it. But he just sits there.
"Touch me," I manage. It comes out as a breathless whisper. My face burns immediately, because even two words feel like I'm stripping myself bare. But I said it. I chose those words instead ofwhatever you want.
He moves. His hand slips under the shirt and wraps directly around my cock, his calloused palm gripping the shaft. He gives me one slow, firm stroke from base to tip. The relief is so sharp my back arches off the couch, and I gasp loud enough to startle the soufflé guy.
One stroke. Then his grip loosens. He stays there, but the pressure drops to nothing, his fingers barely grazing me. I whine in protest. That wasn't enough. My body wanted forty more of those. He finally turns away from the TV and looks at me. His expression is steady, patient, slightly amused, and completely devastating.
"What do you want?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave. He's not going to just do it. He's going to make me use my words.
I close my eyes. His face is too much right now, and I can't look at him while I try to form sentences about my dick. "Your hand," I stammer, my voice unsteady. "On my... please. Your hand. Harder."
He grips me properly this time. His fist tightens around my shaft, and he strokes. Firm, steady, the pace exactly right. The wet sound of his palm sliding over me, the slick and precome making his grip glide. My hips roll up into his hand, and the sound I make is wrecked. Desperate. The heat coils low in my belly, my thighs tensing. I'm close. I'm almost—
He slows down. The grip stays tight, but the pace drops to an agonizing crawl. I could actually scream. His thumb swipes overthe head of my cock, catching a bead of precome, and the sharp spike of sensitivity makes me jerk.
"What else?" he asks, low and unbothered.
"Harder," I gasp. I don't even care that my face is probably the color of a fire engine. "I want... your fist tighter. And don't—don't stop this time, please, I need—"
It's not a request. It's a demand. I hear it leave my mouth and it doesn't even sound like me. Or maybe it's the real me, finally clawing his way out from under a lifetime ofI'm fine with anything.
He obeys immediately. His grip tightens, his pace picking up. His free arm comes around my waist, hauling me closer against his solid chest. I rock into his fist. I'm so close the edges of my vision are blurring white. My cock pulses against his palm, and I'm right there—
"What do you want when you come?" he murmurs, his mouth brushing my ear. His voice is rougher now. Less controlled. He's asking me to think about the future while every thought in my head is white noise, and it's completely unfair.
"I want—" My voice cracks. "I want to come on your hand. I want you to... to watch me."
I cannot believe I just said that to a man while someone on TV is frosting a cake.
But Callum's response cuts the thought right in half. He lets out a low, involuntary groan that vibrates through his chest and straight into my body. The specificity didn't scare him off. It turned him on. I just made this massive, steady alpha lose his breath. He pumps his hand faster, his arm tightening around my waist like I'm the only thing keeping him anchored to the room.
