Page 7 of Match My Alpha
I type back before I can overthink it.
Milo:you can't just SAY that while i'm at work
Anonymous:Are you at the library?
Milo:yes and i'm supposed to be a professional
Anonymous:Are you blushing?
I glance down at my arms. The flush is visible on my brown skin if you know where to look—the insides of my wrists, the heat creeping up my neck. I'm grateful for the dim lighting and the fact that nobody at this university has ever voluntarily approached this counter.
Milo:...maybe
Anonymous:Good. I like that I can do that to you from across town.
My stomach clenches. It's not butterflies. It's lower, and a hell of a lot hotter. It makes me press my thighs tighter together, feeling the slippery drag of slick between my legs. It's obscene. If anyone were close enough to scent me, I'd have to drop out of school. Previous KnotMe conversations have been some variation ofhey, u up?followed by a blurry dick pic and acome over?that made me feel about as desired as a microwave burrito. Nobody on that app has ever made me blush. Nobody has made me wet.
Anonymous is different.
Anonymous:Tell me something. What do you think about when you're alone?
I stare at the message. My thumb hovers. I've had exactly two hookups in my life—both before KnotMe, both from parties where someone's friend knew someone's friend. They were fine, forgettable, and both were with guys who wanted an omegawho'd show up, present, and not make it weird after. I was good at that. I showed up, I made it easy, and I left before the awkward morning part. I didn't tell either of them what I actually think about when I'm alone, because what I think about is embarrassing and specific. It involves hands on my waist, sliding down to my stomach—the soft part I always suck in—and an alpha sayingstay still, let me look at youand actually meaning it.
I type, delete, type again. The cursor blinks.
Milo:honestly?
Anonymous:Always honestly.
Milo:i think about someone touching my stomach. which is dumb because it's not my best feature or whatever but i think about big hands just. holding me there. pressing down. like they want that part of me specifically
I hit send and immediately want to crawl under the desk and die. That is the most vulnerable thing I've ever typed on a hookup app. In my life, honestly. I've never gone this deep with anyone, and the fact that it's a stranger on a screen somehow makes it worse and better at the same time. I watch the typing indicator pulse. My heart hammers so loud I'm sure the girl studying three tables away can hear it.
Anonymous:That's not dumb. That's the hottest thing anyone's ever told me.
Anonymous:I want to press my mouth there. Right where you're soft. I want to feel you breathe against my lips while I hold you down with both hands. I'd stay there until you stopped hiding.
My cock throbs. It's a full, heavy ache pressed against the zipper of my jeans. My breath comes out shaky, and I grip the edge of the desk with my free hand. The slick is real now. A wet, warm spread that means my body has decided this is happening regardless of where I am.
I'm hard. At work.
I cross my legs, then uncross them. The friction doesn't help. Nothing helps. I want to shove my hand down my pants, but I'm sitting under fluorescent lights next to a "quiet please" sign, dealing with a growing puddle of arousal that I'm going to have to clean up before my shift ends.
Anonymous:Too much?
Milo:not enough
I type it without thinking, my face going hot. I don't delete it. Something about the screen, the distance, the fact that he can't see me—it makes me braver. Like there's a version of me behind this keyboard who says what he actually wants instead of pretending he doesn't want anything at all.
Anonymous:Tell me what "enough" would be.
Milo:your hands where you said. on my stomach. and then lower. slow. i want someone who goes slow and pays attention and doesn't just skip to the part where i'm useful
I stare at those last five words.The part where i'm useful.I didn't mean to say that. Except I did. It slipped out the way truths do when you're turned on and tired of pretending. Now it's sitting on his screen and I can't take it back. I don't know if I want to. No one has ever gotten this particular confession out of me before.
The typing indicator pulses for a long time.
Anonymous:Anyone who treated you like you were there to be useful didn't deserve to touch you.
