The Alpha's Fine Print novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: On His Knees

At the kitchen table she gives her first order and Lorcan eats her until she shakes.

He went down on his knees.

His eyes never left mine.

The old office was quiet except for the ticking of the radiator and the sound of our breathing.

"Kitchen," I said.

He frowned. "What?"

"I'm not doing this on a dead man's desk."

A corner of his mouth lifted.

"Hobart would have loved this," he said.

"Hobart would have billed us for the furniture."

He laughed, and then he stood, and I took his hand, and he let me lead him.

The ranch kitchen was warm and huge, with copper pots and a scrubbed oak table.

The house was empty.

I had said, "Everyone out," and eleven wolves had gone, and I did not ask where.

I sat on the edge of the oak table.

My skirt was still rucked around my hips, and I had no underwear on, and I did not care.

"Take off your shirt," I said.

He didn't move.

Then he said, quiet, "Ask me."

I blinked.

"I'm your Alpha," he said. "Or I was this morning. If you want something, ask. Don't tell me."

"The clause is only no," I said slowly.

"I know."

"So you want me to ask you for everything."

"I want you to want it enough to say it."

I understood what the old words really meant.

I could stop him with a word.

I could not make him do one thing.

So everything else, every touch and every yes, had to be a request that he was free to refuse.

My pulse was a bell in my throat.

"Lorcan," I said. "Please take off your shirt."

"Yes," he said, rough.

He pulled the flannel over his head in one move, and dropped it on a chair.

He was lean, all hard stomach and long muscle, with a scar curving over his ribs and a trail of dark hair under his navel.

"Now your belt," I said. "Please."

"Yes."

He undid it and slid it out of the loops, slow.

"Don't take anything else off," I said. "Not yet. Come here and kneel."

He knelt between my feet.

I took the pins out of my hair one at a time, to give myself a second.

The pins were an excuse.

I wanted to look at him on his knees on the kitchen floor.

A man who could break a door with his shoulder, waiting for me.

"I want your mouth on me," I said. "Please."

"God," he breathed. "Yes."

He pushed the skirt higher and kissed the inside of my knee.

Then the inside of my thigh, slowly, a kiss and then a long drag of tongue.

Up and up, while his hands held my legs wide apart.

His hair brushed my skin.

When his breath touched my pussy, I shivered all over.

"You smell incredible," he said against me.

"Don't talk. Lick."

He licked me.

One long, flat stroke from my entrance to my clit, wet and warm.

I made a noise I will never admit to.

He did it again, slower.

This time he closed his lips around my clit and sucked, soft, his tongue flicking in tiny circles.

My hands went into his hair.

I pulled the tie out and the long chestnut waves fell around his face, and I fisted them and held on.

"Like that," I said. "Right there. Don't stop."

He hummed against me.

The vibration went through my whole body, and my heels dug into his shoulders.

He slid two fingers back inside me while his mouth worked, curling them to find the place he'd found on the desk.

"Lorcan. Oh, fuck."

"Mm."

"Slower. No, faster. I don't know. Don't you dare change anything."

He didn't.

He kept that exact pressure, that exact rhythm, until the pleasure began to climb up my spine.

I tipped my head back.

The copper pots hung above me in the light, swaying a little, and I was making little broken sounds with every breath.

"Look at me," he said, mouth wet.

I looked down.

His eyes had gone fully gold.

My wetness shone on his lips and chin, and he looked at me.

"Tell me I'm good," he said.

"You're good," I whispered. "You're so good."

He groaned, and sucked my clit hard, and I shattered.

I came with a cry that echoed off the pans, my back arching, my fingers locked in his hair, my thighs clamped around his head.

He held me through it.

He licked me gently through the aftershocks until I was limp and laughing, and then he rested his forehead on my thigh.

His shoulders were shaking.

"Are you all right?" I managed.

"I haven't touched myself," he said into my skin. "I've been hard for an hour."

"I didn't ask you to."

"No," he said. "I'm waiting to be told."

I think I'd known, sitting there, that I wanted him to wait.

Not as a trade, and not as a price.

I wanted to see what happened to a man like that when he was made to want.

"Stand up," I said.

He rose.

The front of his jeans was straining, the denim dark in one spot, and he shut his eyes when I looked at it.

"I could touch you," I said.

"Yes."

"I'm not going to."

His breath hitched.

"Not tonight," I said. "I'm tired, and I've been in a car for four hours, and I just signed away a year of my life."

"I understand."

"You can sleep in the guest room."

He nodded, once, rough.

Then he said, "What would it take?"

"To do what?"

"To earn the bed. Yours, I mean. Tomorrow."

I slid off the table.

My knees were soft, and my body was humming, and I stood very close to a shirtless Alpha in his own kitchen.

"Ask me tomorrow," I said.

He picked up his flannel from the chair and held it against his stomach.

At the door he stopped.

"Tilda."

"Yes?"

"Thank you for saying no."

I thought he was talking about the clause.

Then I saw his face.

No one had ever said it to him and meant it, and he had waited his whole life to be told where the edge was.

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