CHAPTER 130: SUCKS TO BE ME ( LUTHER’S POV )

"Get down, Emiliano!"

"Why?"

"Because I am barely hold together since you cut me open a few hours ago?"

"I am not doing anything to hurt you."

"Really? Then are you gonna bottom?"

"Huh?"

"Are you gonna bottom?"

Emiliano chuckled quietly but didn’t move off me.

His hand stayed firm on my scar, pressing just enough to remind me it was still healing. The stitches tugged beneath his palm, sharp but not unbearable.

It made me flinch.

He didn’t care.

With his other hand, he moved slowly—purposefully. He brought it to his own pants, fingers resting on the zipper. My eyes followed without meaning to.

He dragged his hand up, slow and deliberate, from the zipper to his belly button. His shirt lifted as he moved, revealing the hard lines of his stomach. The skin there twitched slightly under his own touch.

I couldn’t look away.

"How deep do you think you could reach, puppy?"

His palm flattened as it moved upward, dragging the hem of his shirt until it rested just under his ribs. His fingers trailed over his abs like he was mapping each muscle, showing me everything he knew I wasn’t supposed to see.

All while his other hand remained on my body.

Still pressing against the scar. Still making it burn.

I shifted under him, and my pants slipped a little lower. The waistband sat right on the edge of the scar now, where the pain bled into something else—something worse.

Or better. I couldn’t tell anymore.

I felt too much at once.

Heat surged through my chest. I gulped, trying to calm my breathing. My face flushed. My thighs tensed.

What was wrong with him?

What kind of alpha would react like this when he is asked to be the bottom?

This is insane.

I am insane for being into this!

He is insane for—

My God.

HE IS RUBBING AGAINST ME!

Emiliano smirked. It was slow, crooked, confident—the kind that made my stomach twist.

Then he leaned in, just close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath against my cheek.

"Or do you want to try it from here the first time?"

His voice low and raspy, the kind that crawled under your skin and stayed there.

His hand—still warm from dragging across his stomach—rose up again. He brought it to his mouth, sliding his fingers over his lips, slow and smooth. He traced the bottom one, then moved down to his chin, letting his knuckles brush along the sharp edge of it.

I couldn’t breathe.

Then lower.

He touched his throat next. The back of his fingers brushed the center of it before he dragged them deliberately down to his Adam’s apple.

He tapped it once. Gentle. Measured. His eyes didn’t leave mine.

Then he arched a brow.

"This deep then?"

My body locked. I couldn’t even blink. Heat exploded across my face, my neck, down my chest. I flinched like I’d been burned.

Every part of me was screaming—either to jump away or to pull him closer.

Instead, I grabbed my face with both hands, covering everything from my nose to my forehead, trying to hide the burning flush spreading across my skin.

I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t even think.

Annoying hot b-stard.

Act like an alpha at least!

Why are you—

F-ck!

My lungs tightened. I tried to breathe in, but the air wouldn’t come right. It shook on the way down, shallow and quick.

I pressed my palms harder against my face, hoping it would block out the sound of my own heartbeat thudding so loud I could feel it in my throat.

I was trembling. Not from fear. Not from pain.

Just from him.

He didn’t touch me again. He didn’t need to.

I knew that smirk was still there. I could feel it. I could feel his eyes watching me come undone like it was exactly what he’d planned.

And the worst part?

It was working.

Ok, change of strategy.

Give in.

No way he will continue the act of I keep pushing it. There was only so far an alpha could go.

Right?

Right!

Right?

I slowly pulled my hands from my face, my palms slick with sweat, breath ragged and hot.

My skin burned with leftover embarrassment, but it didn’t matter anymore.

I reached out and grabbed Emiliano by the waist, fingers digging in, dragging him down into me.

His body met mine with a sharp exhale. I pushed harder, forcing our hips together, chests aligned. I could feel the way his breath caught.

The tension.

The anticipation.

I gasped, completely breathless, voice catching on the words I had no business saying.

"Isn’t it a husband’s duty to have his face ridden by his wife?"

He froze.

His eyes widened.

Then he swallowed—hard.

The gold in his irises darkened, shifting violently. I watched as that gold bled into red, slow and controlled, but unmistakable. His pupils stretched, narrowing like a predator catching the first sign of surrender.

Without saying a word, Emiliano moved.

Careful.

Measured.

Like I was made of glass but he had full intent to break me anyway.

His hands slid to my waist as he adjusted. I didn’t stop him. I let him move. Let him take control—until he slipped down beneath me.

His body sank to the sofa between my legs. His hands tugged at my hips until I rose slightly. I felt the shift. The air. The sudden heat.

He angled his face exactly where I knew he wanted to be—mouth to crotch, breath brushing against the thin gym pants that were barely hanging on.

His grip was firm but patient as he positioned me.

I had no choice but to grab the side handle of the sofa for balance.

My knees trembled, thighs locked tight around his face, every muscle burning from the pressure.

He waited there.

For confirmation.

Close.

Still.

His hands on my hips, head tilted slightly back, eyes locked on me from below—red and glowing, waiting for permission I didn’t remember giving but knew I wanted to.

I couldn’t even breathe right anymore.

He hadn’t moved.

I gotta stop this!

This moron will actually do it!

Oh God, should I just let him?

"Whenever you are ready, puppy."

You know what?

Scr-w you!

I am done playing your games!

And losing.

I sat down on his face.

Full weight.

No warning.

Not in some teasing way, not in heat. Just because I could. Just because he let me. The cushion under me was too far, and his face was there.

Emiliano squirmed at first, his hands twitching slightly at my thighs, but he didn’t push me off. I stayed. Arms crossed, eyes forward, smug as hell.

Then he stopped moving.

No squirming. No shifting.

No breathing.

My smirk faded.

I glanced down. He didn’t twitch. His hands were still. No protest. His face was buried under me, and now I wasn’t so sure if I’d gone too far.

My heart skipped once, then again. I shifted slightly, trying to rise, to see if I’d accidentally snapped his neck or cut off his air for real—

But his hands suddenly clamped around my thighs.

Firm.

Unmoving.

He yanked me back down without a word. I gasped, the motion rough, unexpected.

Then I felt it—his tongue.

Dragging slowly. Firmly. Right along the sewing of my pants. Hot breath pushed through the fabric. I froze.

His voice came next, low and clear beneath me, muffled by the pressure but unmistakable.

"Where are you running to, wifey? We’re not even started."

My body locked up.

I couldn’t see his face.

But I could feel the grin against me.

Now what?

"Wait!"

"Hmm?"

"Don’t!"

"Why? Do your stitches hurt?"

"Yes! Yes, my stitches hurt so bad! So bad!"

An obvious lie.

I knew.

He knew.

Yet he let me get off.

Which was truly not the best look for me.

I scrambled off him, breath sharp and uneven. My legs shook as I stood, barely keeping balance.

My pants were wet—warm, damp half from his breath and tongue, half because of my omega nature—and the thin fabric clung to everything.

Poor cover for what was happening beneath.

The bulge pressed against the front of my gym pants, obvious, embarrassing, impossible to hide. I tried not to look down. Tried not to care. But it was there, straining against the damp fabric, twitching with every breath.

Emiliano didn’t react.

He rose calmly, then placed his hands on my shoulders and pushed me back down onto the sofa. I didn’t fight it. I was too winded to even think straight.

He didn’t say a word.

He kneeled in front of me, leaned in, and lifted my shirt with both hands, dragging it carefully above my abdomen. His face hovered only inches from my hard-on, which pulsed visibly under the fabric.

Still, he didn’t even glance at it.

His eyes narrowed, focused completely on the wound.

He leaned closer, breath warm on my skin as he studied the scar. His fingers traced the outer edge of the stitches, featherlight, moving with precision.

No teasing. No smirk. No comment.

I swallowed, hard.

He pushed slightly near the swollen area, testing for tension, watching my reaction. I flinched, but he stayed steady.

My pants twitched.

He ignored it.

Like it wasn’t inches from his face.

Like it didn’t exist.

It was infuriating.

And somehow worse than if he’d acknowledged it.

He was so doing this on purpose.

B-stard.

Moron.

Idiot.

I should give him a piece of my mind!

Yeah.

At least be a man and acknowledge it! Do something about it! S-ck it!

I cleared my throat, trying to sound firm. Threatening. In control.

But what came out wasn’t control.

It was a whimper—quiet, broken, slipping through clenched teeth before I could stop it.

I froze.

Emiliano did too.

His head jerked up slightly, eyes snapping to mine. I couldn’t read his expression—was it surprise? amusement? hunger?

My chest rose sharply, breath hitching. My throat burned.

"S-ck it, please!"