Unnatural - Alessandra Hazard Page 0,30

There was a surreal quality to this, as if it was happening to someone else, not him. He couldn’t possibly be that man, lying passively under another alpha and allowing said alpha to hump him between his legs.

And yet, he was.

This was so wrong—the heavy weight of another alpha on top of him, Royce’s heady alpha scent, this submissive position—but he’d never been more turned on in his life. Haydn tried not to make any sounds, tried to keep up the stoic facade, tried to pretend he wasn’t actively enjoying this, but it was futile. Before long, he started gasping, little hitched breaths that left his mouth every time his cock rubbed against Royce’s thigh just so.

Soon enough, his legs hooked around Royce’s hips of their own volition, his fingers digging into Royce’s back through his shirt. Fuck, this felt so good—so wrong, but so good. They rutted together, seeking friction, hard and fast. Royce buried his face in his neck, sucking on his scent gland aggressively, and Haydn whined, his head spinning. He wanted—he wanted—

Royce groaned and came, coating Haydn’s stomach with his semen. He sagged on top of him, heavy, sweaty, and very still.

Haydn almost sobbed in frustration. He had been so close. So fucking close.

As if hearing his thoughts, Royce lifted himself on an elbow and looked down at him, his black eyes a little unfocused. “Finish it.”

Had Haydn been less aroused, he would have felt too self-conscious to do it. But he was too far gone. He grabbed his aching, leaking cock and nearly groaned from how good it felt.

Looking into Royce’s dark eyes, he stroked himself, hard and fast, breathing Royce’s scent in greedily. It felt unbelievably good, better than jacking off had any right to feel.

Watching him with a strange look, Royce laid a hand on Haydn’s stomach and smeared his cooling come all over it. Haydn moaned, a lightning bolt of pure delight shooting through him, especially when Royce’s hand moved higher, rubbing his come into his pecs. Royce’s hand grazed his nipple and Haydn whimpered—he whimpered, what the fuck.

After a moment’s hesitation, Royce stroked his nipple, watching him intently. Haydn’s face felt hot. He felt hot all over, his hand flying faster and faster over his cock. He needed—he needed—

Haydn pulled Royce down, to his neck, baring his throat. He wanted to be marked up again. He wanted Royce’s mouth on his neck. He needed it, needed it more than anything—

Royce’s teeth sank into his scent gland and Haydn came with a groan, pleasure rolling through his body as his cock spurted come into his own hand.

Royce made a low, growly sound, still sucking on his neck, his pheromones thick in the air, emanating submit—mine—submitsubmitsubmit. It made Haydn tremble, his instincts all over the place. He wanted to shove the other alpha away. He wanted to wrap all his limbs around Royce and cling.

He did neither.

He just lay there, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Had they actually had sex? Did this count as sex? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t think so.

Either way, he was a lot less freaked out about it than he probably should have been.

The sound of a phone’s ringtone broke the silence.

Royce hauled himself into a sitting position and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Cleghorn speaking.” He ran a hand over his face. “It’s my PR manager,” he said, glancing back at Haydn as he got to his feet and zipped up his pants. It did nothing to fix his wonderfully disheveled look.

Haydn tried not to stare. Something about seeing Royce so disheveled and relaxed after sex made his stomach clench. “Go talk to her,” Haydn murmured. Royce probably needed to discuss with his PR manager how they were going to let the news of Royce’s late presentation hit the media.

Royce shot him a look Haydn couldn’t quite read and left.

As the door shut behind him, Haydn breathed out, some of the fog clearing from his mind. He couldn’t fucking think when Royce was all over his personal space.

It was probably a problem.

Probably?

Haydn laughed.

Chapter Fourteen

Royce suppressed a scowl as he eyed the crowd of journalists in the room.

“Aren’t we popular…” Haydn murmured beside him.

Royce carefully didn’t look his way. He still felt agitated ever since his rut—especially since yesterday—so he didn’t trust himself to keep a cool head where his husband was concerned.

His husband. Royce wasn’t sure when the word had stopped feeling like a mockery. Haydn was his husband. His husband. His.

Cutting