Trapped with the Alpha King (Althea) novel Chapter 273

273/275: I Can Feel It

There was silence between them, thick and heavy.

Uriel’s heart was pounding far too fast for his liking, so he cleared his throat and attempted to lighten the

mood.

“That does not justify you challenging a lamp to change colors,” he muttered.

Beatrice blinked up at him, completely serious. “It refused.”

Uriel exhaled sharply as a smile curved into his serious face. She was too adorable.

She shifted in his arms, far too comfortably. One of her hands slid up, fisting into the collar of his coat as if anchoring herself there. The warmth of her body seeped through the layers of fabric between them, and he felt his carefully rebuilt resolve begin to crumble.

Her scent lingered around him, soft and faintly sweet, mixed with wine and winter air. It wrapped around his senses and refused to let go. Her warmth pressed against him was impossible to ignore.

And his body was reacting. His jaw tightened.

He quickened his pace as they ascended the staircase, boots echoing faintly against the stone. It was winter. The air in the corridors was cold enough that his breath should have misted.

Yet he felt burning hot.

Especially when Beatrice relaxed further, as though she had finally found the most comfortable place in the world. She buried her face against his chest and wrapped both arms securely around his neck, holding him without hesitation.

It was pure torture.

He swallowed hard, forcing his gaze forward.

Sweat drops began forming along his forehead despite the cold.

Every step felt longer than it should. Every second stretched unbearably as he remained acutely aware of her softness against him, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the way her fingers curled slightly into his collar.

He had carried wounded soldiers before. He had carried unconscious comrades. He had carried burdens far heavier than this. Yet none of them had ever tested his self control the way she did now.

“Beatrice,” he warned under his breath, though he was not sure what he was warning her about.

She hummed softly in response, already half asleep. That only made it worse. He tightened his grip just enough to ensure she would not slip, then forced himself to focus on one thing only.

Reaching her chamber. And leaving before he did something foolish.

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Uriel pushed the door to Beatrice’s bedchamber open with his shoulder and stepped inside, the warmth of the room wrapping around them.

He moved quickly toward the bed, intent on setting her down before his restraint snapped completely.

“I will call for your chambermaid to help you sober-”

He froze.

Instead of loosening her hold, Beatrice suddenly tightened it. With surprising strength for someone drunk, she shifted in his arms and practically leapt against him. Instinctively, he caught her, his hands gripping her waist as she wrapped her legs around him.

The sudden movement threw off his balance.

He stumbled and landed on the edge of her bed with a soft thud, Beatrice securely straddling him.,

His breath left him in a sharp exhale.

Before he could react, she buried her face against his neck. He felt the warmth of her lips brush his skin as she nuzzled closer, completely unaware of the havoc she was causing.

“You’re so warm,” she murmured contentedly. “I want to stay here like this…”

Uriel went rigid.

Her arms were looped tightly around his neck. Their bodies were pressed far too close. The position was intimate. Dangerous.

He could feel the heat of her through the thin layers between them. Feel the softness of her where she rested against him. Feel every small shift of her body as she settled more comfortably on his lap.

His mind was screaming at him to move. To pry her off gently. To create distance. But his body betrayed. him.

He did not push her away. He could not.

His hands remained at her waist, fingers digging slightly into the fabric of her dress as though anchoring himself. His heart pounded violently against his ribs, so loud he was certain she would hear it.

“Beatrice,” he said hoarsely, trying to steady his voice. “You are drunk.”

She hummed faintly, her breath warm against his neck. “Then let me stay like this until I feel less dizzy…”

Her hold tightened. Uriel shut his eyes briefly,

‘This is torture,’ he inwardly complained.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on something, anything other than the way she fit so perfectly against him. He drew in a slow breath, then carefully shifted one hand upward, meaning to gently peel her arms away.

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“You need to lie down,” he managed, his voice strained. “Properly.”

If he stayed like this any longer, he was not certain he would win the battle raging inside him.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Beatrice leaned back slightly, just enough to look at him.

She stared at him with a small frown, her gaze roaming over his face as if studying a puzzle. Then, slowly, a wicked smile curved her lips.

Uriel felt his pulse spike.

“Ah,” she whispered, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I know what you want…”

His eyes widened. “Beatrice, do not-”

She did not let him finish. Her lips crashed against his. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, tasting faintly of wine and recklessness. Uriel stiffened in shock, his hands instinctively tightening at her waist. He meant to pull back. Meant to scold her.

He opened his mouth to speak-

And that was his mistake.

She tilted her head and deepened the kiss clumsily, sliding her tongue inside his mouth and stea air from his lungs. For a brief, dangerous second, his thoughts scattered completely.

She suddenly broke the kiss and pulled back just enough to look at him.

Her eyes were hazy, but there was something far too perceptive in them.

“I can feel it…” she whispered innocently, her finger lightly pressing against his chest before sliding lower. “You act like you have no balls… but your body is not pretending.”

Uriel sucked in a sharp breath.

She leaned and teasingly whispered in his ear, “You’re so hard down there…. I can feel it.”

Before he could react, she shifted in his lap, her movement slow and unsteady but devastatingly intimate. The friction sent a jolt through him, and a strained sound escaped his throat before he could stop it.

“Beatrice,” he groaned, his hands flying to her hips to still her.

She blinked at him, almost curious at the reaction she had drawn from him.

“Do not move,” he warned, his voice low and rough, barely controlled.

3/4

274/275. The unexpectext wave

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