Page 46 of My Unhinged Alphas
Not yet.
His gaze drops to my lips again, slower this time, deliberate, like he’s savoring the view.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, even though I already know.
“Deciding,” he murmurs.
“Deciding what?”
“Whether I can get away with kissing you.”
My breath stutters. “And… can you?”
He smiles—lazy, wicked. “No idea. Guess we find out.”
He lifts a hand, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from my cheek. The touch is shockingly gentle for someone built like a living weapon. His knuckles graze my jaw, tracing a line that feels like a warning and a promise all at once.
“You should tell me to stop,” he says softly.
I don’t.
His thumb slides to my lower lip, brushing over it with maddening slowness. My lips part instinctively, and his breathing tightens just slightly—just enough for me to know he felt that.
“You really shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice rasping with heat. “I’ll take it the wrong way.”
“What way?” I manage.
He huffs out a dark little laugh. “The way that ends with you pinned to this wall for a very different reason.”
My thighs clench involuntarily.
Shit.
He sees it. Of course he sees it.
And that’s what breaks the last thread of restraint holding him back. He leans in, mouth brushing mine before actually kissing me, testing whether I’ll pull away.
I don’t. I sway closer instead, breath shuddering against his lips.
That’s all he needs. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair as he finally, finally presses his mouth to mine. The kiss is hard—not brutal, but claiming, confident, hungry in a way that feels like he’s been thinking about this since the moment he walked in the room.
I gasp, and he immediately deepens it, tongue sliding against mine in a slow, deliberate stroke that pulls a broken sound from my throat. His other hand finds my waist, gripping, pulling me flush against him.
He’s solid muscle everywhere.
Hot. Overwhelming. And completely in control of the kiss even though he asked me to tell him no.
I don’t.
I kiss him back, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between our bodies—until I can feel the hard line of him against my hip, heating the air around us.
He groans into my mouth, low and rough, like the sound was dragged out of him against his will. “Fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to speak against my lips. “You taste… better than I imagined.”
“You imagined this?” I whisper, dizzy.
He smirks, leaning in again. “Sweetheart, I imagined throwing you over my shoulder the second I saw you tied to that chair.”
Heat floods through me so fast I can barely stand.
