Page 6 of Healing the Alpha

“Fuck, Max—” I pant, trying to warn him, but if he understands what’s about to happen, it doesn’t deter him. He just keeps sliding his hand along my shaft as my balls draw up and my cock stiffens, moving so close that I can feel his breath on my neck, his fingertips digging welts into my waist.

I let go. It’s not a snap, or an explosion—it’s a slow tidal wave, the pleasure building and cresting until I can’t catch my breath, before it crashes over me in intense, throbbing waves that ripple all the way down to my toes. My vision blurs, my mouth falling open as I spill hot and hard over his fist, my release splashing onto his thigh before the shower spray washes it away.

I lean back weakly against the shower wall, shivering through the aftershocks as Max releases me and rinses off his hand. He readjusts himself in his boxers while he’s turned away, before taking the showerhead down from its holder and washing the suds off both of us, carefully avoiding my broken arm.

He turns the water off, the flow thinning until the only sound in the enclosed cubicle is the drip-drip-drip from the showerhead, and our heavy breathing.

“Holy shit,” I mutter, letting my head tip back. “That was…”

I shake my head, and Max stares at me like he’s kind of terrified of what I might say.

“That was a really fucking great shower,” I finish.

Max laughs, relief washing over his features as he steps out of the shower first, grabbing a towel from the rack and wrapping it loosely around his waist. I notice a red flush creeping up the back of his neck. “You’re an idiot,” he says. “You’re lucky I’m an expert showerer.”

“That’s not a thing, asshole.”

“It is, and I am. Here, lean against me when you step out,” he orders. “Don’t go breaking a leg after all that.”

I let him help me out, and then I let him dry me off, wicking the water from my legs and chest, every touch sending a tiny spark across my skin, which I put down to the after-effects of the mind-altering orgasm I had a couple of minutes ago. He uses a small towel to aggressively dry off his own short hair before doing the same to mine, smoothing down the slightly overgrown waves when he’s finished, his fingers warm on the tips of my ears.

I look at him in the fogged-up mirror, expecting to feel strange. But I don’t. He’s still Max. I’m still me. He catches me looking and gives me a slightly bashful grin as he picks up my sweatpants, which he placed, neatly folded, on the countertop pre-shower.

“You wanna watch a movie?” I say as he helps me step into my sweats, and the smile he gives me when he looks up is almost enough to squash the lingering awkwardness I constantly feel at needing him to help me dress. And shower. And jerk off. “Maybe that new Tarantino one?”

“You know I think Tarantino is overrated.”

“Sure. I also know you’ll still watch every one of his movies multiple times. I think you enjoy complaining about them.”

“I think you enjoy my commentary,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “I enjoy watching Uma Thurman kick ass in a skin-tight suit.”

Max raises an eyebrow at me. “Overcompensating, much?”

“Jesus Christ,” I mumble, chuckling at how blatantly transparent that was, even to my own ears. “Okay, I’m putting it on.”

“Don’t, I’ll do it—”

“I’ll do it with my feet!” I shout, already halfway out of the bathroom.

I can practically hear Max’s disapproving head shake as I walk into the living room, just as clearly as I can still feel the ghost of his fingers on my skin.

Max

If I thought Kyle would get used to this temporary arrangement the longer it goes on, I was sorely mistaken.

It’s been a week since he got the brace on his sprained left wrist off with strict orders to keep it well-rested and avoid any strenuous activity, and I’ve already had to physically stop him from nearly spraining it again more times than I can count. On Monday we narrowly avoided getting into a physical fight because he wouldn’t accept that he couldn’t open a jar of pickles, and yesterday he smashed his heaviest casserole dish because his wrist didn’t play ball when he lifted it down out of a high cabinet trying to “help” me cook.

I get it—he’s bored out of his mind, frustrated and feeling like a spare part in his own home. I’d probably be the same. I’ve been trying my best to distract him, but the options are starting to wear thin, and after the incident in the shower, my mind keeps taking me to places it absolutely should not be going.

So tonight, like almost every night, we end up on Kyle’s sofa with a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously between us. Distracting both of us with something low-effort and low-risk to his wrist has become my top priority—it’ll stop him from breaking more cookware, and me from having a minor crisis every time I have to see him walking around in that one pair of ridiculously low-slung sweatpants.

Movies are safe: no heavy lifting, no pride-damaging physical challenges, no reason for either of us to get worked up. It’s Kyle’s turn to pick, and he predictably chooses an over-the-top blockbuster action flick that I think we might have already watched last year.

Simple. Easy. Safe.

The movie’s barely been on for twenty minutes before a sex scene starts up between the lead alpha and his omega love interest. I snort a laugh as there’s a totally unnecessary shot of the omega’s boobs, and Kyle groans, throwing his head back.