Feral (The Wrong Alpha 2)

Westcliff inhaled sharply, his pupils so blown his eyes seemed dark. “Usually being a good alpha doesn’t involve knotting your mate’s little brother.”

“I know,” Jules said lightly, ignoring the way his heart ached and hurt at the thought of Westcliff mating Liam. His fingers trembling with impatience, he unbuckled Westcliff’s belt and then unzipped his pants. “But you aren’t mated to him yet. In fact, Liam called things off, so there’s nothing wrong with this. There are no promises to break, and it’s not like you love each other. It won’t hurt anyone.” Besides me and my stupid heart, he thought as he finally pulled out Westcliff’s cock. He nearly moaned as he squeezed it in his hand. So thick and hard, the fat head already leaking pre-come. Fuck, he wanted it.

Jules leaned down and licked the cockhead. Mmm.

Westcliff made a low, guttural sound as Jules took his cock into his mouth. Gods. The cock felt impossibly wide in his mouth and his lips were stretched to their fullest, but Jules sucked him down, Westcliff’s taste flooding his senses. He’d heard that omegas got high on the taste of an alpha’s arousal, but he’d never believed it until now. He felt drunk, sucking on the cock greedily and unable to get enough, moaning around it like a whore, his whole world narrowed down to that thick, delicious cock—until Westcliff’s hand buried in Jules’s hair. “Come here,” he bit out, dragging Jules upward and into his lap.

Then he jerked Jules’s fly open. A moment later, his large hand wrapped around Jules’s aching erection and started stroking it. Jules squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face against the alpha’s wide shoulder. Fuck, it felt so good, he couldn’t believe it was finally happening, but it still wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted something different. He wanted Westcliff’s hand on his aching, empty hole.

As if reading his thoughts, Westcliff moved his hand lower, stroking his slick opening, and Jules let out a long, shameless moan. He hoped none of the footmen stood outside the door—they’d hear everything—but to be honest, Jules wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to stop humping Westcliff’s hand even if the entire staff watched them.

“Cock,” he gasped out, grabbing Westcliff’s erection again and stroking it greedily. “Need your cock in me. Wanna be fucked.”

“Fucking hell,” Westcliff gritted out. A moment later, there was a tearing sound—his pants, Jules realized dazedly—and then Westcliff was lifting him and—

Jules moaned, impaled on the hard, throbbing cock.

Fuck fuck fuuuuck.

Nothing should feel this good. He’d almost forgotten how amazing this felt, being pounded into, used like a ragdoll for pleasure as Westcliff fucked up into him, lifting him up and down, as if Jules weighed nothing. His strength was an enormous turn-on, and Jules could only take it, his moans getting progressively louder, no matter how much he tried to muffle them against Westcliff’s shoulder. They were fucking fully clothed, he realized distantly. Somehow it made the act even more obscene, and Jules moaned loudly, squeezing around the massive cock drilling inside him. The wet, slurping sounds his hole made would have embarrassed him—if he were capable of being embarrassed. All he could do was feel. Feel and fall apart on Westcliff’s cock.

It took him a ridiculously short time to come, but Westcliff didn’t stop. He toppled them over, Jules’s back hitting the couch, and kept on thrusting. And thrusting. And thrusting. Soon enough, Jules was pushing back onto Westcliff’s cock, needing to come again. His own cock was soft after his first orgasm, but the need inside him didn’t lessen, the weird pleasure taking him higher and higher, and he couldn’t get enough of it. His fingernails digging into Westcliff’s back, he urged him on, moaning at every thrust.

Jules cried out as he came again, his second orgasm even more overwhelming than the first. Westcliff shuddered on top of him and pulled out with a curse, coming against Jules’s stomach.

Blinking blearily, Jules pursed his lips, more than a little disappointed, no matter how good he felt. “You didn’t knot me.”

Westcliff let out a strangled laugh against his shoulder.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, still breathing unsteadily. “Of course I didn’t knot you. It would have been irresponsible—more irresponsible than this already is. You’re just coming off your heat. You’re likely still fertile, even with the suppressants.”

Jules shivered. Fertile. Instead of scaring him, the word brought a pang of irrational longing to his heart. He suddenly imagined it—and quickly pushed the thought out of his mind. There was no use thinking about things that’d never happen. Not to him. Not with this man. Irresponsible. Right.

“Julian.” Westcliff’s tone was quiet but loaded. “I’m—”

“Don’t,” Jules said quickly, shimmying out from under him and getting to his admittedly shaky feet. “It’s fine. There’s nothing to apologize for.” He straightened his clothes, looking anywhere but at Westcliff. “It’s just sex. We’re both consenting adults. It’s fine. I have to go!” And he ran out of the room before Westcliff could say the dreaded “I’m sorry, it was a mistake.”