Making The Alpha Submit (BL)

DO YOU ENJOY BEING SEXUALLY SUBMISSIVE?

October 22nd, xxxx (Night)

NOW THAT MARKET DAY has officially come to a close, Precious opts to use the time wisely, to unwind, relax and be free, unencumbered.

And so, jacket, vest, tie hangs on his swivel chair; shirt unbuttoned and untucked, belt loosened, he lies on the brown sofa in his office, feet propped in the air, head resting against a pillow and a new book in hand, he decides he'll hide here in the meantime until he's drowsy enough to pick himself to bed.

Though exhausted, his body doesn't think it's ready for sleep but it's probably the gallons of coffee he gulped today that's betraying the natural order of life.

Is what he lies to himself but even as he tries to understand the words before him, even as he yawns and his brain shoots in fatigue overdrive, he knows why he's not trudging to bed.

Precious can lie to himself all he wants but his attention is turned to the game outside and the audience it attracts. He should be there watching the free entertainment—if the free entertainment is the game and not a particularly shirtless Major.

He could've stayed, pretended he's all about the sport but he couldn't help the way his gaze trained on the Shifter, eyeing the ripples of his muscles, the flexing of his biceps, of his abs, the tautness of his nipples in the cold night air and when he scores for the team, blue eyes darkening under floating moon will meet his and wink, a darling teasing smile that'll warm the blood to his crotch.

Then, Precious will flush and forget to breathe, his mind adding to his inner humiliation when it replays that night in the manor's bathroom, that day in the car ride, little snippets when he glance around for the Major or when he'll stop a second to fixate on that fateful morning he's taking to calling command a tie.

Goddess, that's ages ago now. So much has happened. And he thinks it's a good thing he's been running around, definitely helping him not to obsess over it. But now that there's nothing immediate for him to do... Well...

He tries again, the reading getting his groove on and it must've worked—of course it did—because when the door to his office open and close and someone enters, his concentration is too far gone until they speak.

"You're awake," Precious makes a noncommittal sound but snap into focus when Kamil turns his chin up to smiling eyes and damp hair. "I thought for sure you'll be asleep."

The finger on his skin is cold to the touch, the kind of cold you want to feel all over your body, naked, without protection.

Sucking in a breath at the image, he's hit with the wild smell of sage; the spicy tang of it seeping into his pores and he sighs softly, the back of his mind trying to get him alarmed that soap can elicit this sort of arousal but the knackered fibre of him doesn't listen.

Will not listen because when Kamil knock their foreheads together, his eyes closed and he exhales, gripping the spine of the book so he doesn't do something as hasty as pinning him to himself and clash their lips in a blazing kiss.

Kamil pulls away first and it takes the sheer grace of humility that Precious doesn't complain. Instead of sitting, he kneels and for the briefest of seconds, Precious thinks he should be the one kneeling. The audacity of that thought makes him groan, drop the book to clarify,

"We're not sleeping together."

"I know."

He does a redundant nod, picks up the book and tries reading but it's futile; unnerved at their close proximity, hyperaware of Kamil's unwavering attention; suddenly self-conscious of what he's reading; how he's reading, if he looks reasonable from this angle, if he smells as good as him; wanting a finger, or breath or just a graze on him.