Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

His muscles noticeably flex. “Or I could outrun you, and then I’ll drive my cock in your mouth.”

Damn.

I breathe through my nose, my blood cranking to a red-hot simmer. I clutch his waist, my hand moving towards his ass. “Or we could pretend you outran me, and I’ll gladly put your cock in my mouth.” It’s an out so he won’t have to hurt himself.

“Maybe,” he says without a pause.

I stand up, an inch taller, and my hand dives down his shorts. I grip his bare ass and watch his eyes devour me whole.

“Maybe?” I ask deeply.

Maximoff tilts his head back, almost bathing in mounting arousal and want. His daggered eyes are groaning fuck me fuck me.

I hold his jaw and close my lips over his bare neck. Sucking harder and harder—he rocks his hips against mine, our bodies tensed. Blistering veins pulsing.

Pulsing.

And then he says, “No.”

I frown and instantly retract my hands.

He breathes heavily. Pent-up. Neither of us came this morning since he had an early doctor’s appointment for a post-op checkup. But we were teasing the hell out of each other in bed with no release.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, concerned.

“I need to run first.” He tears away from me and goes to the treadmill.

I really don’t understand why he’s so adamant.

Sure, he’s been managing the pain better. His uncle and dad have been sharing tips since they’ve both been in similar spots as Maximoff. But trying to run, of all things, will flare up his injury and hurt him.

I reach the other machine. “You realize running requires shoulder movement?”

“Pretty much everything under the sun requires shoulder movement. I’m aware.” He climbs onto the unmoving belt.

I do the same on my treadmill, but I lean casually on the handlebar. Watching him push buttons to change his machine’s settings. “What’s so special about running?”

He ups the incline and the speed but doesn’t press start yet. “I planned to train for the ultra marathon this summer, and before you say I can’t run anymore, I’m not letting Sulli down. I have to fucking try.”

Sulli and Maximoff signed up for the ultra marathon almost an entire year in advance of the August race day. Things change.

Shit happens.

Like a car crash.

But he’s lost a lot recently. The H.M.C. board was furious when Maximoff decided to cancel the night with a celebrity. The charity sent out a scathing press release a few days ago, and Ernest nailed Maximoff’s career in a coffin:

Maximoff Hale continues to value himself above the needs of others, and his entitlement has caused this charity to suffer in recent years. He bowed out of an event and instructed his family to do so, which would’ve earned millions for our upcoming humanitarian projects. Due to his carelessness and irresponsibility, we are permanently severing ties with Maximoff Hale. He no longer represents H.M.C. Philanthropies.

He has no job for the first time in years. He can’t swim, his greatest stress reliever gone. And he still has no license. When he drove, he had this compulsive need to push faster. And faster. Speeding, even on the days when he shouldn’t or didn’t need to.

It’d be easy for Maximoff to put all of his energy into the one thing he has left.

The ultra.

And that need to push and push won’t be a foot on a pedal. It’ll be on his body.

I hold his gaze that doesn’t ask for comfort this time. “Okay, but you can’t run, and as much as I love fucking with you, I take no enjoyment in telling you that there’s no chance you’ll be able to compete. The ultra is in Chile, Maximoff. It’s rocky terrain that’ll move your shoulder.”

This morning, I drove at a snail’s pace over a small speed bump, and he winced between his teeth.

Maximoff clicks into a Cross Training program. “I can try.”

I roll my eyes, and the corner of my mouth gradually rises. Fuck, I adore this guy, even when he’s so hardheaded. But no matter how far he pushes, I’ll be right by his side. Ensuring he’s not killing himself.

I glance at his machine’s screen. He’s on a speed setting that shouldn’t overexert him right now.

And as our eyes lock, I tell him, “Prove it.” See, I’d much rather Maximoff realize he’s not healed up yet at this pace than a speed that’ll just annihilate him.

Make no mistake: I’m watching his body very fucking closely in case I need to rip the emergency stop cord.

We both press start at the same time, same speed.

Maximoff starts walking briskly. No pain yet.

I jog. Looking over at him.

He glances at me. And then he picks up his pace, jogging—pain suddenly cinches his eyes. We’re stride-for-stride for exactly two strides.

His jaw sharpens and he steps onto the stationary track, legs spread. It always hurts seeing him hurt, a rock wedging in my ribs.

He snaps his eyes shut for a longer second.

I lower my machine’s speed to a walk. “What do you need?” I ask.

He blows out a measured breath, opening his eyes on me. “Your honesty.”

I stay walking on the moving belt next to his powered off treadmill. “I honestly believe you’re too hard on yourself and you’re too afraid of disappointing Sulli.”

Maximoff listens intently. He’s thinking hard, and then rests his weight against the machine’s handlebar and monitor. Not starting the treadmill back up.

I’m about to stop mine—

“Don’t,” he says. “You wanted to workout. You should.”

I can do a lot of things, but I can’t sprint in front of my boyfriend while he’s dying to run. It’s not even my workout of choice. It’s one of his, and if I stay on this track, it’s just being callous towards someone who’s extremely kind.

I turn off my machine. “I’m doing abs on the mats.”

Maximoff adjusts his sling. “You sure?”

I hang on my handlebar and careen towards him. “I’m always sure.” Shit, that’s not entirely true. There is something I’m unsure about…but before I retract my statement, Maximoff gestures to me.

“You know,” he says, “watching you run wouldn’t upset me. It’d probably just make me hornier.”

My smile reaches cheek-to-cheek.

He blinks into a glare. “I take it back. You didn’t hear that.”

“I heard that,” I say matter-of-factly, leaning over my handlebar towards his treadmill. “Watching me run does it for you. So does when I walk, talk, smile, breathe—”

“Thank you for listing my turn-offs.”

“Anytime.” I remember what I needed to talk abo

ut again, and my smile vanishes faster.

Maximoff notices, and questions flash in his eyes. “I’d been meaning to ask—at the appointment earlier, you didn’t like my doctor, did you?”

Now I really can’t stop staring at him, a surprised breath in my throat. He hit the topic almost dead center, and it’d take someone who truly understands me to put these small pieces together.

My affection for Maximoff overflows me, swelling up inside my chest. This is the overwhelming effect of spending almost every minute with each other. To the point where being with him has felt like years stacked on top of years. And my only fear is it ending.

I comb a hand through my white hair. “No, I didn’t like that doctor.” I step off my treadmill. “Did you?”

Maximoff follows me to the gym mats near the rock wall. “He seemed fine to me. He was polite, professional, and it’s not like he’s my primary care physician.” Because he still doesn’t have one.

“He was professional,” I agree, watching Maximoff lower to the mat, his back up against the multi-colored anchors and bolts. I add, “My dislike has more to do with me than him.”

His brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

Taking a seat in front of my boyfriend, I hang my arm on my bent knee. “I was jealous.” It’s not a small statement. It’s the start of something much larger and more consequential.

His strong-willed eyes never drift off mine. Maximoff exudes quiet compassion that feels louder than thunder. “Is your jealousy from wanting to be my doctor?” he asks. “Or because you aren’t practicing medicine at all?”

I tilt my head back-and-forth. “Both.” I nod, certain. Both. “It wasn’t just this morning at the doctor’s office. It was when you were rushed into Philly General on a stretcher.” I pause. Remembering that night, and I explain how when I finally made the choice to leave medicine four years ago, I had no reservations.

There was no longing to return.

Only a peace to let go and never look back.

“I always thought I’d go through those hospital doors and feel nostalgic. Not bitter or envious,” I tell him while he listens carefully. “I was pushed aside trying to help you in the ER, and I chalked up my emotion to being protective of you and being frustrated that I couldn’t do more.” I pause again.