Naughty Empire [An Erotic Collection]

Dominanting The Ruthless Alpha BL pt3

Chapter 3

Alexander:

The great hall still smelled faintly of wine and wax even hours after the dinner had ended. I’d slipped away before the last of the servants cleared the tables, before anyone could notice the faint tremor in my hands or the way my lips still tingled from biting down on Lazer’s throat. I told myself it was strategy—disappear before the other omegas started whispering, before someone reported back that the clumsy one had pinned their precious Major to the rug like he was nothing more than a toy.

But the truth was simpler and uglier: I needed space to breathe. Because what I’d done—what we’d done—had cracked something open inside me, and I wasn’t sure yet whether the fracture would let light in or bleed me dry.

I spent the rest of the evening in the lower corridors, folding linens, scrubbing already spotless silver, anything to keep my body moving while my mind replayed every sound he’d made. The way his voice had fractured on “please.” The way his thighs had trembled when I folded him open. The way he’d held me afterward, arms tight like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.

By the time the bell tolled for the alphas’ council meeting, I’d convinced myself it was a fluke. A single stolen moment. He’d come to his senses tomorrow, remember who he was—ruthless, untouchable—and I’d be back to being invisible.

I was wrong.

The council chamber doors were still closed when I finished my evening duties, but the gossip had already started leaking through the walls like smoke. The other omegas clustered near the kitchens, voices low and excited.

“…heard the border patrols reported movement again. They’re talking reinforcement rotations.”

“…Major Lazer was in a mood. Snapped at Commander Vale when he suggested delaying the next sweep.”

“…some beta from the engineering cohort brushed past him during the recess—hand on his arm, casual-like—and you should’ve seen his face. Froze like he’d been struck.”

My stomach dropped.

A beta. Touched him.

I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I slipped out through the servants’ passage, heart hammering against my ribs, and made my way to his private chambers. The halls were quiet now, torches guttering low. I didn’t knock when I reached his door—just pushed inside with the spare key all personal servants carried and locked it behind me.

His rooms smelled like him: cedar smoke, leather, the faint metallic bite of gun oil, and that deep, dark alpha musk that still made my knees weak. I didn’t turn on the lamps. I sat on the edge of his massive bed, still made with military precision, and waited.

Minutes bled into an hour. Maybe more.

When the door finally opened, he stepped inside alone. No entourage. No guards. Just him—still in his dress uniform, jacket unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The firelight from the corridor haloed him for a second before he shut the door and plunged us into near-darkness.

He saw me immediately. Stilled.

“Alexander.”

His voice was careful. Too careful.

I stood slowly. “You let a beta touch you.”

He exhaled through his nose, a short, sharp sound. “It was nothing. A greeting. A brush of fingers on my sleeve while passing reports.”

“Nothing?” I stepped closer. My bare feet were silent on the thick rug. “You froze. They noticed. The whole compound noticed.”

His jaw tightened. “And that bothers you.”

It wasn’t a question.

I closed the distance until I could feel the heat rolling off him. Until I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “Yes. It bothers me.”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, then heat, then something softer I couldn’t name. He reached out, slow, like he was testing whether I’d allow it. His knuckles brushed my cheek.

I caught his wrist before he could cup my face.

“No,” I said quietly. “Not yet.”

His pupils blew wide.

I turned him with a gentle push until his back hit the heavy oak door. He let me do it. Let me press my body along the length of his, let me slide my thigh between his legs until I could feel him already thickening against my hip.

“You don’t get to be touched tonight,” I murmured against his throat. “Not by me. Not until I decide you’ve earned it.”

He swallowed hard. “What do I have to do?”

I smiled against his skin. Small. Sharp. “Suffer beautifully.”

I tugged him toward the bed by his open collar. He followed without resistance—big, lethal body moving with a kind of dazed obedience that made my c**k throb behind the loose fabric of my servant’s trousers.

When we reached the bed I pushed him down to sit on the edge. He obeyed instantly, thighs spreading on instinct. I stepped between them.

“Strip to the waist,” I ordered.

He shrugged out of the jacket, then the shirt—buttons popping in his haste. The fabric whispered to the floor. His chest rose and fell too fast, n*****s already peaked in the cool air. The bite mark I’d left on his throat had darkened to a deep, possessive purple.

I traced it with one fingertip. He shivered.

“Hands behind your back. Lace your fingers. Don’t let go.”

He obeyed. The position forced his shoulders back, chest out, vulnerable. I loved it.

I knelt between his thighs—slow, deliberate—and dragged my nails lightly down his ribs. Gooseflesh followed in their wake. When I reached his n*****s I pinched—hard enough to sting, not enough to bruise—and twisted slowly.

His head fell back on a choked groan.

“Look at me.”

His eyes snapped open. Glassy already. Desperate.

“You let someone else put their hands on what’s mine,” I said softly. “So tonight you don’t get to come. You don’t get f****d. You don’t even get my mouth. You get to feel how much I want you—and you get to beg for mercy you won’t receive.”

I palmed him through his trousers. He was rock-hard, the fabric stretched obscenely. I rubbed the heel of my hand in slow circles, just enough pressure to tease.

“f**k—Alexander—”

“No.” I squeezed once—warning—then released him entirely. “You speak when I allow it. Otherwise you stay quiet and take what I give you.”

He bit his lip so hard I saw the skin blanch.

I worked his belt open, tugged his trousers and briefs down just enough to free his c**k. It slapped wetly against his stomach, flushed dark, already leaking. I wrapped my fingers around him—loose, barely there—and gave one slow, torturous stroke from root to tip.

His hips jerked.

I stopped.

“Stay still.”

He whined—low, broken.

I started again. Slower this time. Feather-light. Letting my thumb circle the head on every upstroke, spreading the precome until he glistened. His thighs trembled. His breathing turned ragged.

When his hips tried to chase my hand again I pulled away completely.

“Please,” he gasped. “Please—touch me properly—”

I slapped his c**k—not hard, just a sharp sting across the shaft.

He cried out, body jerking.

“Quiet,” I reminded him. “Or I stop entirely.”

Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. Not from pain. From need. From the unbearable ache of being denied.

I started again. Faster now. Tight, slick strokes that had him panting, head thrashing against the headboard. His fingers were white-knuckled behind his back. Every muscle in his torso stood out in sharp relief.

“You’re so pretty like this,” I murmured, voice soft with genuine awe. “The big bad Major, leaking and shaking for an omega. Look at you—c**k dripping, thighs trembling, tears in your eyes. So perfect. So mine.”

He sobbed once—quiet, wrecked.

I sped up, thumb pressing ruthlessly over the slit on every pass. His balls drew up tight. His stomach clenched.

I stopped.

He keened—high and desperate.

“No—no—please—Alexander—let me—”

I leaned in and licked a slow stripe up the side of his throat, right over my bite mark. “Not yet.”

I edged him three more times.

Each one left him more wrecked. More vocal. More broken.

By the fourth he was crying openly—tears sliding down his temples into his hair, chest heaving, c**k throbbing untouched in the air between us.

“Please,” he begged, voice raw. “Please, Omega—please let me come. I’ll be good. I swear. I won’t look at anyone else. Won’t let anyone touch me. Just—please—need you—need to come for you—”

I cupped his face, thumbs brushing away the tears.

“You’re doing so well,” I whispered. “So beautiful when you beg. My perfect alpha.”

I wrapped my hand around him again—tight this time—and stroked fast, merciless.

“Come,” I ordered.

He shattered.

His whole body locked up. A raw, guttural cry tore from his throat as he spilled over my fist—hot, thick pulses that painted his stomach, his chest, even catching the underside of his chin. He shook through it, sobs mixing with moans, hips jerking helplessly.

When the last tremor left him he collapsed forward, forehead dropping to my shoulder. I caught him, arms wrapping around his broad back, holding him while he trembled.

I kissed his temple. Soft. Reverent.

“Mine,” I murmured.

He nodded against my neck, voice barely a rasp. “Yours.”

I didn’t f**k him that night.

I didn’t need to.

He was already marked—inside and out—by every tear, every plea, every shuddering release I’d wrung from him.

And when I finally guided him to lie back and cleaned him with a warm cloth, when I tucked myself against his side and felt his arms close around me like I was something precious.