My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 86: Luther’s First ( Killian’s POV )

Chapter 86: Luther’s First ( Killian’s POV )

"What do you mean?"

"That’s what Emiliano said. You passed out when we— because of the pheromones going through the vent. He said that I withered your flower."

"You didn’t see it with your own eyes."

"No."

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"You said you weren’t disgusted by me."

"I am not."

"Then kiss me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"But your pheromones-"

"I’ll control them. Kiss me already!"

I leaned in closer.

I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. Lucky for me, the sound of my heartbeat covered any other noise in the room.

I gulped.

I don’t remember. How did he like being kissed?

You’d think I’d be more confident. I’ve kissed a lot of people — more than I’d admit out loud — and I usually don’t overthink it. It’s never been a big deal.

But with him, it wasn’t the same.

Luther stood there like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

Like he could see right through all the easy charm I usually throw around and knew I was just trying not to mess this up.

His eyes — that impossible shade of purple — were locked on me, calm, unreadable.

I felt like I was waiting for permission I wasn’t sure I deserved.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful. It was just... confident.

Like he knew I’d follow his lead, and I did.

My heart jumped so fast I felt a little dizzy.

I tried to relax, to match him, but I kept second-guessing myself — was I leaning in too much?

Were my hands doing something awkward?

Was I kissing too slow, too fast?

Too sloppy?

He hated sloppy kisses.

I’ve never cared this much about getting it right. And I hated how nervous I was.

But I couldn’t help it.

He had one hand resting lightly at the back of my neck, his fingers barely pressing, just enough to keep me steady.

The way he moved was smooth — no hesitation, no nerves.

Meanwhile, I was trying not to think about how warm his mouth was or how I’d been thinking about this exact moment since the first kiss.

My hands hovered for a second before I settled them at his sides.

I didn’t grip too hard.

I didn’t want to mess up the rhythm.

I hated how careful I felt.

Every time he shifted a little, I followed — maybe too quickly. I could feel the heat rising in my face, and it had nothing to do with the kiss itself.

I was so aware of everything I was doing, trying not to be too eager, too much.

And I knew he felt it.

He didn’t say anything, obviously.

But there was something in the way his lips curved just slightly before he deepened the kiss — like he could tell I was overthinking it and wasn’t the least bit surprised.

He wasn’t smug. Not exactly, but he was in control.

Again.

And I hated how much I liked that.

His hair brushed my cheek when he tilted his head. It was soft, dark, cut just under his chin.

He was close enough now that I could feel the way he exhaled when he pulled back just a little — not to stop, just to pause.

I opened my eyes for half a second and saw his.

Still calm. Still watching me.

I swallowed hard.

I wanted to kiss him again. Properly. Better.

But he was already pulling me back in.

And I let him.

Even if I was shaking a little.

If I could replace-

Or just smutter a bit Emiliano’s grip on him, I was ready to do way more than kissing.

My hands moved without thinking, finally doing something other than hovering like I was afraid to touch him.

I slid them down his sides slowly, just enough pressure to feel the shape of him.

He didn’t stop me. He didn’t even flinch — not at first.

But when my fingers reached his stomach, everything changed.

I kept my touch light.

Gentle.

Just a slow drag of my palm over soft skin, right under the hem of his shirt.

I wasn’t grabbing, I wasn’t rushing.

Just feeling him. Caressing. Testing.

That’s when he twitched.

It was subtle — just a small jolt under my fingers — but I felt it.

His breath hitched right against my mouth, and for a second, he broke the rhythm of the kiss.

Then came the shiver.

A real one.

I felt his body tense and pull just slightly closer before he tried to steady himself again.

And that’s when I smiled.

He was still kissing me, still trying to keep that calm, unbothered edge he always carried like a second skin — but now I had something. Something real.

A little reaction.

A little proof that I wasn’t the only one affected here.

That he accepted my touch on his flower. On the shivering petals.

I didn’t stop.

I kissed him deeper, firmer, more sure of myself now.

My hand stayed where it was, right at his stomach, thumb brushing in slow circles over the spot that made him twitch.

I could feel his muscles tense every time I touched it just right.

He wasn’t in control anymore.

And we were both enjoying it.

Deeply.

I climbed on top of him, still kissing him, still touching him, until his back hit the mattress and I settled my weight over him.

He looked up at me — flushed, breathing harder, lips just a little swollen from the kiss.

His eyes weren’t unreadable anymore.

Not completely.

There was a crack in the cool, in-control act. And I was the one who put it there.

I leaned in, kissed him again, slower now, dragging it out as my fingers ghosted over his stomach one more time, just to feel him shiver again.

This time, he did.

And this time, I didn’t feel nervous.

Not even a little.

He slightly pushed me to talk.

His voice came out in a whimper, making my ego grow so much, it could almost equal a straight white forty-year-old guy who peaked in highschool.

"I-"

"Want to stop here?"

"It’s not that. It’s just- it’s my first time with an alpha. I’m a bit scared."

My God.

I think I just-

How pathetic.

Not even an one-minute man.

"Do you think you control your pheromones, babe? Can you be good for me?"

He nodded, avoiding my gaze.

The moment he nodded, something in me snapped.

I didn’t hold back.

I didn’t pace myself.

All the restraint I had — the careful, measured confidence, the controlled touch — it was gone.

I kissed him hard, my hand gripping his waist, holding him still as I leaned in and pressed my mouth to every inch of skin I could reach.

His throat.

His collarbone.

The dip between his shoulder and neck. I pushed his shirt up and kissed down his chest, open-mouthed and desperate, like I couldn’t get enough of him.

I didn’t even bother pulling the coat aside. I just shoved it God knows where and kissed lower.

He was already breathing harder.

His body twitched under mine every time I made contact — small shudders, short gasps I could feel more than hear.

His skin was warm and flushed. His fingers were in my hair, pulling weakly, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold me close or push me away.

It only served as motivation to do better.

I kissed down his stomach, slow and steady now, letting my lips trail just enough to make him squirm.

My hands were everywhere — sliding down his sides, gripping his hips, smoothing over his thighs.

Every time I touched him, he reacted.

A twitch. A little shake. A sharp breath.

I looked up once. His eyes were half-lidded, glazed. He was already falling apart and I hadn’t even undone his belt yet.

That made my pulse spike.

I mouthed along the line of his stomach, right above the waistband. He jolted when I reached the spot I’d brushed earlier — the same place that made him shiver the first time.The flower that just bloomed another petal- eager and impatient.

This time was worse.

He gasped, full-body, his hips lifting off the bed slightly before he forced himself to stay still.

He was trying so hard to behave. To be good. To control his scent.

It made me dizzy.

I reached for his belt, undoing it slowly, not because I wanted to be careful — but because I wanted to see how long he could hold out.

He was shaking now. Not just a little. His whole body trembled under me. His fists were tight in the sheets, and he kept turning his face to the side like it would somehow hide how wrecked he already was.

I didn’t rush. I kissed him again, just above the waistband, then again a little to the side. His thighs tensed under my hands.

His breath came in short, uneven bursts, like he couldn’t remember how to breathe steady anymore.

This wasn’t about performance. This wasn’t about control anymore. This was instinct.

I wanted him.

Not slowly. Not sweetly.

I wanted all of him.

And from the way he looked up at me — desperate, flushed, barely holding it together — he was going to let me take it.

"Luther?"

"Mmm?"

"I love you."