I shake my head, breathless.
She licks her lips.
“Do you think you’ll be like the other Alphas?”
There’s a challenge in her gaze—like she’s testing me, daring me to break her heart.
I force myself to answer, through the pulse pounding in my temples.
“No.”
She smiles, then.
For real.
All the way to her eyes.
She leans in, brushes the head against her cheek.
“Why?”
I can’t lie.
Can’t pretend.
“Your eyes aren’t cold like theirs.”
The admission hangs there, fragile and enormous.
She stares at me.
For a second, I think she’s going to shatter.
But she shakes it off, giggling again—a sound that says, not today, not me, survival is the only religion worth praying to.
She takes me back into her mouth.
No teasing now.
She works me like a pro—squeezing the base, lips tight, tongue stroking in counterpoint. She picks up the pace, everymovement practiced but not mechanical; there’s artistry here, a sadistic joy in making me writhe.
I lose track of time.
Lose track of everything but the suction and the wet sound and the way her eyes keep flicking up to watch me, check that she’s winning.
She is.
She fucking is.
My body tenses, every muscle straining.
I try to hold back.
Try to last.
But she knows the signs—how the knot at my base starts to swell, how my breath goes ragged, how the head gets hypersensitive.
And she doesn’t stop.
