Filed to story: The Tyrant Alphas Rejected Mate
My wolf isn’t feigning sleep anymore. She’s alert and pissed and letting me feel it. Bad male. Go to the other female’s cabin. She huffs and turns her back.
Killian twists his torso, reaches over, and gently lifts my chin. Then he bends down and brushes his firm, dry lips against mine.
Time freezes.
I exhale a sighed, “Oh.”
And suddenly, I can feel it all at once, his touch shining a floodlight on the emptiness inside of me, the years of touchlessness after Ma and Da passed when I was fostered, the cold ache that settles into your bones, and remains, no matter how much your friends care for you when you’re grown.
It’s the place left when Ma no longer brushes your hair for a hundred strokes. When Pa’s no longer there for you to rest your head on his furry belly and scratch behind his ears.
It’s raw, always-still-and Killian’s touch exposes it and soothes it at the same time.
It’s what I needed.
What I missed.
And the thoughts don’t make sense, but it doesn’t matter because I’m rapt.
He draws his nose along the side of mine and then kisses my forehead. His hands stroke over my shoulders and down my back. He draws me closer. My fingers land on his bare chest. It’s hot to the touch.
My heart pounds. We’re both breathing heavily, and it stirs the air between us, creating a heat, an urgency.
An intimacy.
I let my fingers explore, slide up his pecs, and they twitch and tense. His lungs hitch.
I did that.
There’s a rumble in his chest, and I lay my cheek against it to see if I can feel it.
I can.
He smooths my hair, dropping a kiss to my hairline, the tip of my nose. I sigh and cling tighter, winding my arms around his neck, lifting myself so I can kiss him back.
This is perfect. This is designed. This can make up for it all if I let go, if I just give in to the mysterious swirling rising inside me.
He’s exploring, traveling from my lips to my temple to my jaw, as if he’s tasting the differences, as if he’s swept away, too.
We’re thigh to thigh, the shawl bunched and tented as we twist to reach each other. I want more. I want to touch everything. I grab his shoulders to lift myself, but my leg is stiff, and I can’t get a good enough grip. I growl, frustrated.
He chuckles. “I got you.” He picks me up and resettles me sideways in his lap, returning my hands to his shoulders and then massaging the thigh of my bad leg.
He kisses me, eyes closed, as he cradles me, and I feel floaty and surrounded and gobsmacked. I feel held.
He’s so strong. I run my fingers down his bulging arms, the veined tops of his hands, his hard knuckles. He has a fighter’s hands, a fighter’s body. But he’s docile beneath me. Patient. Coaxing.
Waiting for me.
For what?
He nips my bottom lip with his sharp teeth, and something inside me bursts open.
Oh, now I know. For this.
I want. Heat courses through my veins, and I squirm.
I don’t like this position. I want to be able to climb, crawl, roll.
I dig my fingers into the bunched muscles of his shoulders and lift up. This is too slow motion. I know what I need. He knows too, that’s why he matches me, urges me closer, cradles my neck in his palm.
I lick his mouth, and when he parts his lips, I devour him. I clutch him, plastering my breasts to his hard chest, inhaling with him because he’s air, he’s home, he’s everything.
I need, and he has what I want. The deprivation is a chasm inside me, and he can fill it, he has it, and I can make him give it to me, with my mouth, my hands.
He folds his arms around me, tight, and rubs my lower back, soothing me and murmuring, “You taste so good, baby. Let’s go back to my place. We’ll get this out of our systems.”
Yes.
That’s the best idea.
We need space. So I can put things in order, and we can touch all over, and we can-get this out of our systems.
My brain crashes headfirst into the words. There’s almost an audible tire screech.
Hold up.
Wait a minute.
I’m the only one swept away here.
He’s in full control.
He’s smirking, self-satisfied, tugging the shawl where it’s bunched under my thigh.
Oh, hell. I’m making a fool of myself.
I’ve never stood so quickly. I hop down into the phlox, landing with my weight on my bad leg, and thank goodness, it holds me. My wolf is snarling, raging, utterly pissed on my behalf. I’m gonna barf.
I stumble through the flower garden toward the stairs.
My hands are shaking. I wipe my mouth. I want to spit him out. I want to suck on a bar of soap.
What’s wrong with me?
I trip. He reaches to steady me-he’s right behind me-but I stagger forward, putting as much distance between us as I can.
He keeps following, but a few more steps behind. When I get to the steps, he lifts me up then backs off again.
“What’s going on?” He’s genuinely confused.
I don’t know. The mate bond is gone. I’m not in heat. My body’s gone bonkers-and my feelings are all over the place-but this isn’t like back in the briar patch. I never want to feel that way again. And yet, here I am, thirsting after this asshole like a teenage fangirl, gobbling up any crumb he throws my way.
I tell the roomies all the time-just because this pack treats us as less than doesn’t make it true. But no matter how much I tell myself that, no matter how far I’ve gotten from the “poor lone female” mentality, here I am, my lonely orphaned self, clinging to the alpha, desperate to feel less abandoned.
This is more humiliating than the briar patch.
“Nothing. I want you to leave. Just go.”
His brow furrows.
New Book: Veiled Desires of the Alpha King Novel
Dayson was the alpha of the largest pack in North America. Powerful figures from other packs sought to offer gorgeous girls as potential mates for Dayson. He steadfastly rejected these advances, he was not a pawn to be manipulated. But eventually there came a mysterious girl he could hardly say No. Who was she?