Page 67 of My Unhinged Alphas
I can still feel her in my hands. In my mouth. In the part of me that keeps reaching for her no matter how much I try to beat it back down.
Havoc keeps going, because once he finds the bruise, he never stops pressing. “Come on. Have it your way. Light a candle. Say a prayer. Ask forgiveness after.”
The old reflex in me turns vicious.
He has no idea what it cost me to grow up wanting with guilt already wrapped around it. He doesn’t know what it does to me when I touch someone and hear condemnation before the pleasure even fades. He only knows enough to sneer at the outline of it.
My hand closes once at my side.
“Havoc,” I say again. His name leaves my mouth lower this time, and that ought to be warning enough.
Havoc looks at me for one long second, sees exactly where I’m fraying, and smiles like he’s just found a knife and somewhere soft to put it.
Then he turns to Lena. Deliberate. His hand slides to her chest slowly enough that she sees it coming, slowly enough that she could stop him. His gaze never leaves hers as his palm settles over her breast, heavy and possessive, and his thumb drags once over the shape of her through her shirt.
Her breath catches.
My body answers before my mind does.
“Please don’t,” she begs.
His thumb finds her nipple through the fabric and flicks it once, just enough to make her jolt. A soft sound slips out of her before she can swallow it. Her hand lifts, not to push him away, but to catch at his wrist like she doesn’t know whether she’s trying to steady him or herself.
Havoc’s smile deepens. “There she is,” he murmurs.
His other hand drifts lower, slow, unhurried, gliding over her stomach, dipping to the waistband of her jeans. He pauses there, looks at her. “Still no?”
Lena’s lips part. Her eyes are wide, confused, heated, and far too aware.
“No,” she whispers.
My mouth goes dry.
Havoc slips his hand inside her jeans, and Lena arches into the touch before she can stop herself, a broken little moan catching in her throat. He strokes her through her panties at first, the heel of his hand pressing into her while his fingers move with obscene patience, and I watch her body melt by inches.
I should leave.
I don’t.
I should stop this.
I can’t.
Every sound she makes lands somewhere low in me and stays there. A breath. A gasp. A soft, helpless mewl when Havoc circles her clit through the thin fabric and she grabs at him with both hands now, no longer trying to pretend she isn’t unraveling.
“Havoc,” she whispers, and even hearing his name from her mouth cuts through me.
He glances at me over his shoulder, still moving his hand inside her jeans, still rubbing her exactly where she’s hottest, and there’s mockery in his expression, yes, but something else too. A challenge.
Lena’s head tips back against the wall. Her fingers tangle in his shirt. She’s trying to stay upright and failing beautifully, and I hate that I know the sound of her pleasure already. I hate that I know how wet she gets, how her breath changes when she’s close, how her voice thins around my name.
Now she makes that same sound for him. A soft, wrecked mewl.
And I can’t look away.
My cock hardens painfully against my fly. The welts across my back sting under my shirt. Everything in me pulls in too many directions at once—disgust, hunger, guilt, jealousy—and none of them win.
Havoc squeezes her breast harder, thumb rolling over her nipple again while his hand works between her legs. “You like that?” he asks her.
