Page 65 of The Alpha Under My Bed

Didn’t speak.

He just stood there, broad shoulders relaxed, arms crossed over his chest like he had all the time in the world. The mask covered most of his face, but his eyes?—

God, those eyes.

Dark. Intent. Hungry.

But there was nothing else.

No scent.

No warmth curling through the air.

Just silence.

An absence where an alpha should be.

My stomach twisted, the sensation so violent I thought I might be sick. My breath turned shallow, uneven, my body still burning from the inside out, still wound tight from the constant cycle of stimulation and denial—but I barely felt it over the ice creeping into my veins.

He was suppressing his scent.

The realization hit like a slap.

I was trapped in a room with my alpha, and I couldn’t even smell him.

The void where his scent should be was unnatural, unsettling. It made him feel like a ghost—something just outside the realm of reality.

My fingers clenched around the blankets, my breath coming too fast, panic and arousal mixing into something unbearable.

Because I was still aching for him.

Still slick and ruined, still whimpering from the last pulse of pleasure, still helplessly wet in front of him.

And he knew it.

He knew everything.

I scrambled back, my movements jerky, shame searing through my chest as I reached for the sheets, trying to cover myself, trying to erase the last five minutes—but it was too late.

I had begged for him.

I had cried for him.

And now he was here.

The belt buzzed back to life.

I choked on a gasp, my body jerking violently as a fresh wave of pleasure slammed into me, lightning crackling through my core, a sharp, ruthless vibration hitting my clit directly. I arched involuntarily, my fingers twisting in the sheets, my thighs trembling—the sensation too much, too sharp, too humiliating.

A low chuckle rumbled from the doorway.

Oh my God.

Oh my fucking God.

I wanted to die.

The sound coiled around my spine, hot and knowing, unshaken, completely in control.

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