Page 37 of My Unhinged Alphas
No one.
My thumb drifts upward along her side, slow, uncertain, until I feel her breath hitch again. The reaction is immediate and honest, and it does something dangerous to the part of me that has always equated desire with punishment.
“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” I tell her again, softer this time.
Her lips brush mine when she answers. “I understand that you kissed me.”
The simplicity of it unravels something in me.
I kiss her once more, deeper now, not rough but no longer restrained. My body presses closer, drawn by instinct rather than permission. The wall behind her is unforgiving, but she arches into me anyway, closing whatever distance I left.
She makes a small sound, soft and startled, and it cuts straight through every defense I’ve ever built. My restraint fractures. Splinters. Collapses.
My hands are on her before I can stop myself—gripping her hips, sliding lower, feeling the warmth of her thighs through the thin fabric of her clothes. She feels breakable and alive under my fingers, and some part of me knows I should back away.
Instead, I lift her. Her breath catches as her body rises with almost no effort, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist. The moment her thighs tighten at my hips, something inside me snaps in a way I don’t recognize and don’t want to analyze.
I pin her against the wall. The impact is soft, controlled, because even losing myself like this, I will not hurt her. But the second her back hits the concrete, her body presses into mine, and the heat of her—God, the heat of her—is too much.
My cock grinds against her without permission from anything but hunger.
And she gasps. Her nails dig into my shoulders, and that tiny, involuntary sound from her throat nearly brings me to my knees. I thrust against her again, slower but with purpose this time, dragging every inch of myself along the place she’s warmest, feeling the friction pulse through both of us.
“Tell me to stop,” I manage, but the words come out strangled, a failing leash on a starving animal. “Fuck… tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t answer, and her silence is permission. Or temptation. Or the beginning of my destruction—I can’t tell which, and right now I don’t care.
I move again, rolling my hips into hers, feeling the soft heat of her respond—her body arching, her breath shattering against my mouth. Her thighs tighten, dragging me closer, and the pressure of her, even through clothes, is enough to blur the edges of my control.
“God… you feel…” The sentence breaks apart because I can’t finish it, not when her body is clenching around my hips like she needs me as badly as I need her.
She looks at me—eyes dark, lips parted—and something in that look steals whatever sense I was clinging to.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper against her jaw, my voice wrecked.
She pulls me closer. Her hips lift into mine, seeking more friction, more contact, more of anything I’m willing to give. When she grinds back against me, the pleasure hits so hard Ichoke on it, my forehead falling to her shoulder for one breath before I force myself to meet her eyes again.
I need to see her. I need to know she’s not afraid.
But what I see is worse—need, real and immediate, shining back at me.
I drag my cock against her again, harder this time, grinding up into the soft place between her legs, and her reaction—her shuddering breath, her fingers tightening in my hair—undoes whatever was left of my sanity.
“Say something,” I breathe, thrusting slowly, deliberately, my control thinning to a thread. “Anything. I need—” I break off with a low groan because her hips rise to meet mine, perfectly, like she was made to fit against me.
“Tell me to stop,” I say again, but my mouth is at her throat now and my body is already moving against hers. “Please.”
And in the space between one heartbeat and the next?—
She doesn’t stop me. She pulls me closer. She arches when I reach her chest.
The thin fabric of her shirt does nothing to hide the shape of her breasts, the way her nipples tighten under the brush of my breath. I hear her inhale, shallow and quick, and that sound is all the permission I need to push the hem of her shirt up and expose her to the cool air of the room.
She gasps again when my mouth closes over her. Her nipple hardens against my tongue, and the noise she makes—soft, unguarded, needy—shakes something loose inside me. I suck gently at first, then harder when she presses her chest into my face like she can’t help it, her fingers tangling in my hair and tugging as if she needs to anchor herself.
“Please—” she whispers, and that single sound is my undoing.
I drag my tongue across her breast, slow and claiming, then take the other one into my mouth, sucking until she trembles.She’s warm everywhere, heat rolling off her in waves, her hips shifting against mine with restless, instinctive need.
