Page 21 of His Problem Alpha
"That's it," he murmurs, his thrusts becoming more deliberate, more focused as I relax under his hands. "Going to fill you up. Keep you full of me."
The knot swells, stretching me to the point of pain, then past it into a fullness that borders on transcendent. It's too much—physically, emotionally. I feel owned, claimed, taken in a way that goes beyond the physical.
I break. There’s no other word for it. I just break.
I scream as I come, my body clamping down around his knot. My nails rake down his back, drawing blood, but he doesn't flinch. He just holds me tighter, his hips grinding against mine as his own release hits.
"Devon," he groans, my name a prayer on his lips. "Fuck, Devon."
The sensation of him pulsing inside me, filling me, triggers another smaller orgasm that leaves me trembling and gasping. We're locked together, physically and in some other way I can't name, can't face.
And then, to my horror, I start to cry.
I can't stop the ugly, heaving sobs that wrack my entire body. I'm angry at myself for wanting this, at him for making me want it, at the whole fucked-up situation. But beneath the anger is something worse—pure terror at how exposed I feel, how much I suddenly need him. My jokes, my sarcasm—they've always kept me safe. Until now.
"Devon?" Alarm colors his voice. "Did I hurt you?"
I shake my head, unable to form words through the sobs. I try to turn away, to hide my face, but his knot keeps us locked together, forces me to stay right where I am.
"Hey," he says, his voice gentling. "Hey, it's okay. I've got you."
He shifts us carefully onto our sides, his knot still firmly lodged inside me, and pulls me against his chest. One hand strokes my hair, the other rubs soothing circles on my back. He doesn't try to make me stop crying. He just holds me, murmuring soft, soothing words against my temple.
"It's okay," he whispers. "Let it out. I'm right here."
I cry until I'm empty, until there's nothing left but exhaustion and a strange, hollow peace. Alex's knot has begun to subside, but he doesn't pull away. He keeps holding me, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
"I'm sorry," I finally manage, my voice raw from crying. "I don't know what that was."
"Don't apologize," he says, his hand still stroking my hair. "It happens sometimes. After intense... experiences."
I laugh, the sound watery and weak. "Is that what we're calling it? An 'experience'?"
I feel him smile against my hair. "What would you call it?"
"A category five fuck-up," I say automatically, my voice still thick. "I mean—"
He cuts me off, not with words, but by pulling me tighter. The silence that follows is heavy. This is the part where I'm supposed to make a joke, and I can't think of a single one.
"What happens... after?" I finally ask, the question hanging in the air like smoke.
I can feel the tension in his shoulders. He's as lost as I am. "I don't know," he finally admits, his voice rough. "I'm not... good at this."
"Good at what?"
"This," he says, and his hand tightens on my back. The meaning is clear. The caring. The staying.
My throat feels tight. "Yeah," I whisper. "Me neither."
He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. It's not a solution, but it feels like a promise to try.
"Get some sleep," he murmurs. "We're not going anywhere."
I want to protest, want to make him promise he won't disappear while I'm sleeping, but exhaustion is already pulling me under. My eyes grow heavy, my limbs loose and warm. I curl against him, breathing him in—bitter coffee, sharp ozone, and that deep alpha musk that now feels like home.
The last thing I register before sleep claims me is the feeling of his arms tightening around me, holding me close like something precious. Something worth keeping.
For the first time in my life, I don't want to be alone, and that's the most terrifying feeling of all.
