Page 26 of Pin My Alpha
“Language,” I say, and take him into my mouth.
He groans, and this one is louder. I keep my eyes on his, working my way down slowly. My jaw has limits, and I’m not an idiot. My tongue flattens against the underside while my hand strokes the length I can’t take, spit slicking my palm until the glide turns easy and wet. Declan’s head tips back against the shelves of liquor, his throat exposed. A low, vibrating sound rumbles in his chest.
I pull off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting my bottom lip to his cock, and pump him with my fist while I catch my breath. “You’re welcome.”
His eyes open, dark and heavy-lidded. “Is that what this is?”
“A professional consultation,” I say, kissing the swollen head. “Services rendered.”
“Right.”
I take him back into my mouth before he can say anything else. I am good at this. I know how to find the cracks in someone’s control, how to make them lose their balance. It’s a system. You keep them wanting, you set the pace, and you don’t give them an inch until—
Declan’s hand settles in my hair.
The thought just dissolves.
He doesn’t push my head down, doesn’t grip or pull. His palm is just there, broad and warm against my scalp, his fingersthreading into my curls. Then his thumb brushes once, very gently, over my temple.
My mouth goes slack around him. The careful rhythm I’d been holding together just falls apart. A needy, pathetic noise crawls up my throat and I choke on it, heat flooding my face.
“Good boy,” he says, low and rough.
My brain goes completely quiet. The spreadsheets, the sarcastic comeback I was drafting, all of it vanishes. There’s only the heavy weight of him on my tongue and the slow, humiliating gush of slick soaking through my jeans. I can feel it, hot and wet, sliding down my thigh.
Declan feels the change. His hand stills in my hair, his hips freezing an inch from my mouth. He waits. The silence is worse than a question.
I should pull away, say something sharp, put the walls back up. Instead, I make another small, broken sound around him, and my ears burn.
His pupils blow out, a flicker of heat in the dark green. “Shay.” His fingers flex once, a barely-there pressure against my scalp. “Look at me.”
I do.
There’s no smirk. No satisfaction. He looks wrecked. One hand is braced white-knuckled on the bar behind him, his chest rising and falling hard under his Henley. He’s holding himself back.
That makes this so much harder.
“You want me to stop?” he asks, his voice rough. It’s just a question. No command underneath it, no trap.
My throat works, but nothing comes out. I give my head a tiny, jerky shake.
His thumb brushes my temple again. “Want my hand off you?”
“No,” I manage to whisper.
“Okay.” He doesn’t move. “Take your time, then.”
Take my time. Like I’m not kneeling on a dirty floor with slick dripping down my legs. Like the bite on my neck isn’t pulsing with heat. I glare up at him, because it’s the only move I have left. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’m enjoying you,” he says, and my stomach twists into a knot.
I can’t think of a single thing to say to that, so I shove him back into my mouth, deeper this time.
Declan curses, a raw sound torn from his throat. His hand tightens, not to push, just to hold me steady while I take him all the way to the back of my throat. I gag around him, a full-body clench, and a gush of fresh slick spills into my boxers. My eyes water. I hate how much I like the feeling of his fingers tangled in my curls. I hate that the second he gives me permission to slow down, all I want to do is go harder.
I pull back, dragging in a breath through my nose, spit trailing down my chin.
His laugh is a broken thing, halfway to a groan.
