Page 38 of My Unhinged Alphas
With one hand, I unbutton her jeans and jerk them down enough for me to slide my hand underneath the waistband, between her legs. Even through her panties she’s soaked, her body reacting to every grind of my hips, every pull of my mouth on her skin. I rub her slowly, letting her feel my fingers, letting her feel how easily she responds to me. Her hips jerk forward, trying to catch my hand, my rhythm, anything.
“Please,” she breathes again, barely a sound.
I hook my fingers beneath the fabric and push it aside. She’s wet and hot and soft in a way that steals my breath. The moment my fingers slide between her folds, she gasps—sharp, desperate—and her thighs tighten around my hips, pulling me closer as if she can drag the pleasure deeper.
“God,” I whisper against her chest. “You’re—fuck.”
She’s trembling. Not from fear. From need.
I press two fingers inside her, slow at first, feeling the way her body clings to me, welcoming every inch. Her head falls back against the wall, lips parted, breath stuttering. I curl my fingers upward, finding the spot that makes her moan—a soft, broken sound she tries to swallow but fails.
“Don’t stop—” she begs, voice thin with pleasure.
I don’t.
I thrust my fingers into her steadily, my thumb circling her clit in small, precise motions. Her whole body tightens, hips rocking helplessly into every stroke. She’s close—God, she’s so close. I can feel her tightening around me, can hear the rising pitch of her breath, can feel her thighs trembling against my sides.
She’s seconds from coming. I feel it. She feels it.
Her hand fists in my hair, pulling me harder against her chest. Her hips grind down onto my fingers, chasing the last bit of pressure she needs.
And that’s why I stop. I pull my hand back just enough to break the rhythm.
“No—don’t—please—” Her voice breaks on the last word, her hips still searching for my hand, her breath shattered with denial.
I step back half an inch, chest heaving, heart pounding like I’m the one who almost came apart under her.
I want her climax too much. That’s the problem.
Her eyes snap open, glassy with need, confusion warping into something close to anger. “Why—why did you stop?”
I swallow hard, forcing air into my lungs, forcing restraint back into my bloodstream like poison. “Because,” I manage, my voice rough and uneven, “if I make you come right now…I won’t be able to stop myself.”
Her breath catches.
And for one long, devastating moment, I want nothing more than to ignore every reason I shouldn’t and let her fall apart in my hands.
But I don’t.
I step back another inch, trembling with the effort of holding myself together.
“Say the word,” I whisper, “and I’ll finish what I started.”
But she doesn’t say it. And that’s the only thing keeping me from losing myself completely.
I leave the room before I make another mistake. Before I touch her again. Before I lose myself completely.
I don’t even remember crossing the space between us. One moment I’m staring at her—flushed, breathless, pupils blown wide as she begs me not to stop—and the next I’m tearing myself away from her like the room is on fire.
Maybe it is.
Maybe I am.
The door shuts behind me with a dull, final sound, and I don’t look back. I can’t. My hands are still shaking, slick with the ghost of her heat, her pulse, the way her body clenched around my fingers like I was something she wanted instead of something she should fear.
I walk faster. The hallway blurs. The concrete walls, the bare light bulbs, the smell of rust and cold air—all of it dissolves under the weight of what I did.
How could I touch her like that? How could I lose control?
