Page 10 of Pin My Alpha
Then the scent slides in. Cedar and clean cotton, a hint of old whiskey underneath. It’s in the pillowcase under my cheek, in the heavy warmth of the sheets, rising from the skin of the arm hooked possessively around my waist. It’s coming from the solid wall of chest pressed against my back, the slow, deep breaths moving through both of us.
Declan.
My body goes soft before my brain can stop it, a stupid, traitorous melting into the heat. A feeling of being exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Then my brain catches up, and every muscle I have locks tight.
No, no, no. Goddamn biological tripwire.
The night comes back not as a memory but as a series of body blows. His mouth, rough with beard-stubble, tasting of whiskey as he backed me against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. His hands, huge enough to span my waist, pushing me down onto the mattress. The low rasp of his voice against my ear—you’re perfect, Shay—and the way I’d gone absolutely silent, all my smart-mouthed bullshit dissolving on my tongue.
I remember the weight of him, the slow, deliberate way he filled me until my brain shorted out. I remember begging. I arched into him, dug my nails into his shoulders, and begged him not to stop, not to slow down. I asked for the bite, gasping it into his skin like it was the only thing that would make it real. The shame of it burns hotter than the memory. I didn’t just let it happen; I chased it, and I wanted it so badly I couldn’t breathe.
And then his teeth. The sharp, final pressure at my throat just as I came apart, the sound I made swallowed by the act of being claimed.
I bolt upright so fast the room spins, a string of curses dying in my throat.
The heavy arm slides off me, landing with a soft thump on the mattress. Cold air hits my back where he was, and a raw, needy ache opens up in my chest. Put it back. The thought isn’t mine, but it’s loud.
He makes a questioning sound in his sleep, a low murmur, and rolls onto his back.
I freeze. Don’t wake up. Please, for the love of God, do not wake up.
I’m naked, sticky, and smell so much like him I feel like I’m wearing his skin. It’s a flashing neon sign broadcasting my own spectacular idiocy to the entire world.
That’s when I look down.
The skin at the curve of my shoulder is angry-red and puffy, a perfect impression of teeth sunk deep. A claiming mark.
I think I stop breathing.
Behind me, the mattress shifts. Declan makes a low sound in his sleep, and I freeze, every muscle pulled tight. I move before he can wake up, sliding off the bed an inch at a time. The floorboards protest with a soft groan, and I hold my breath until the silence settles again.
My clothes are all over the floor. Jeans by the bed, underwear caught in one leg. One of my socks is clear across the room by the dresser, which feels like a personal attack.
Declan doesn’t move. He’s on his stomach now, one arm thrown across the space I just left, his hand lying open on the sheet where my hip was. In the weak pre-dawn light, the grey at his temples looks softer. His face is loose with sleep, beard shadowing his jaw, his mouth slightly parted.
He looks peaceful. Like he didn’t just detonate my entire life.
The urge to crawl back under that arm, to fit myself against his chest and let him wake up holding me, is a physical pull. A sharp, stupid ache that makes my chest hurt.
I turn away from it. Plan: find clothes, get dressed, leave. Simple. No feelings involved.
I grab my jeans and pull them on, not bothering to search for my underwear. My shirt, however, is gone. Vanished. I crouch and check under the bed, which is pathetic. Nothing but dust and a stray bottle cap. It’s probably tangled in the sheets somewhere, trapped under his huge body. Of course it is.
Then I see it. A dark Henley, folded over the back of the chair by the door. His.
No. Absolutely not.
I can smell it from here—cedar and clean cotton. It’s going to be huge. The collar will sit right on the mark.
I pull it on anyway.
The moment the worn cotton goes over my head, his scent is all there is. It’s warm and soft from a hundred washes, settlingover my shoulders like a friendly weight. The sleeves fall past my fingertips. The neckline is stretched out, and as I move, the inside of the collar brushes against the bite. A hot little jolt goes right down my spine. My body takes a deep, greedy breath before my brain can tell it to stop.
I could go back. I could peel this Henley off, slide under his arm, and just be there when he wakes up. Let the word mine be a comfort instead of a cage. The thought opens a warm, terrifying space under my ribs.
“No,” I whisper, and the sound is sharp enough to cut the air.
