The Alpha’s Secret Obsession Now novel Chapter 59

Having Morgan in my arms again feels like breathing after drowning.

Her mouth moves against mine with a hunger that matches my own, and I let myself sink into the sensation—the softness of her lips, the heat of her breath, the small sounds she makes when I angle my head to deepen the kiss.

Fuck… finally.

The woodpile presses rough against her back, and I press rougher against her front, and somewhere between those two pressures exists a woman I’ve wanted for longer than I’ve been willing to admit.

Paul’s scent clings to her still. The jealousy flares hot and immediate, but this time I don’t fight it.

She’s mine too, damn it.

I channel it instead, letting the possessive need fuel every touch, every kiss, every deliberate press of my body against hers.

I want to erase him from her skin. I want to replace every molecule of his scent with mine until anyone who encounters her knows exactly who claimed her last.

My mouth leaves hers to trace a path down her throat, and I breathe deep against the curve where her neck meets her shoulder—the unmarked territory that Paul left untouched.

The absence of a mating bite feels like an invitation, and my teeth graze the sensitive skin with pressure just shy of breaking.

Morgan gasps, her fingers twisting in my hair, her body arching into mine with a responsiveness that makes my blood run hot.

That sound. I’d burn the whole world down to hear that sound again.

I was gentle with her in the greenhouse. I held myself back, touched her with reverence, worshipped her like she was something fragile and precious that might shatter if I gripped too hard.

I told myself it was respect. I told myself she needed tenderness after years of cruelty.

The truth was simpler: I was afraid.

Afraid that if she saw the full depth of my wanting, she would run. Afraid that the darker edges of my desire would repulse her, drive her back into the safety of Paul’s more commanding presence.

Pathetic. I was so damn pathetic.

So I showed her only the gentle version of myself, the patient brother, the safe choice. But there’s nothing safe about what I want to do to her now.

I want to strip her bare in the fading afternoon light and memorize every curve with my tongue. I want to press her against every surface in this house and hear her cry my name until her voice goes hoarse.

I want to bury myself so deep inside her that she forgets anyone else has ever touched her.

Christ. I’m losing my mind.

I imagine taking her right here against the woodpile, splinters be damned—her legs wrapped around my waist, her back scraping against rough bark, her moans echoing through the empty clearing while I drive into her with all the frustration I’ve been suppressing for weeks.

She would claw at my shoulders, and I would feel her nails break skin, and the pain would only make me want her more.

God, I want her to beg for it. Want her nails to dig deep while she whispers, “Yes, mark me, Zane.” I want her to mean every desperate word.

I imagine laying her across the kitchen counter. She would arch beneath me while I explored her with my mouth, and she would taste like everything I’ve been denied, and I would make her come apart so thoroughly that she forgot my brother’s name entirely.

My hands slide around to her stomach, pulling her flush against me, letting her feel exactly what she does to me.

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this?” The confession spills against her skin. “Having you somewhere private, somewhere I could take my time.”

She turns in my arms, and the hunger in her eyes mirrors my own. Her hands find my chest, pushing me back until my shoulders hit the wall of the stairwell, and then she’s kissing me with a ferocity that steals what’s left of my coherent thought.

I want to savor this. I want to draw it out, make it last, prove that patience can be its own form of passion.

But Morgan is pressing against me with desperate urgency, her fingers working at the buttons of my shirt, her hips rolling forward to create friction that makes us both groan.

I spin us again, reversing positions, pinning her against the wall with my weight. The staircase stretches above us, promising privacy, promising a bed where I can finally show her everything I’ve been holding back.

My mouth traces the line of her jaw, the curve of her throat, the hollow at the base of her neck where her pulse hammers against my lips. I can hear her heartbeat, rapid and uneven, can smell her arousal cutting through every other scent in the air.

“Tell me what you want,” I murmur against her skin. “I need to hear you say it.”

Her fingers thread through my hair, gripping tight enough to sting. When she speaks, her voice carries a rawness that undoes something in my chest.

“Take me to bed,” she gasps.

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