And right now, those needs are screaming for attention.
The sheets are cool against my overheated skin as I lie back, still fully clothed but trembling with anticipation and nerves. I’ve never done this before, got myself off with anyone close enough to overhear. When Josie still lived in the apartment, I wouldn’t even masturbate when she was at home. Most of my experiences with self-pleasure have been clinical, perfunctory—physical release without emotional engagement, like scratching an itch.
This feels different. Monumental. A line being crossed that I can never step back over.
Because let’s be honest…I’m not getting off with these men nearby.
I’m getting offtothem nearby.
The sound of their voices washes over me, a combination of soothing and inflaming even when I can’t make out the words they’re saying.
I close my eyes, trying to quiet the rational part of my brain that’s listing all the reasons this is inappropriate, unprofessional, potentially disastrous. That voice sounds suspiciously like my mother’s and I deliberately ignore it.
Just this once, I tell myself. Just to take the edge off. To make the symptoms manageable.
It’s a lie, and I know it. This isn’t about symptom management. This is about finally acknowledging what I am, what I need. What I’ve been denying myself for years.
I kick off my pants, leaving on the socks that Noah thought were so cute, imagining what one of them might look like tied in a bow around his knot.
Usually, I have to work myself up
The moment the silicone tip makes contact with the overheated and slippery skin of my inner thighs, my entire body seizes with a jolt that steals my breath. The urge to just bury the whole thing inside myself is overwhelming. I’ve never been thiswet, and I wonder if Noah and Kai could immediately tell that I was dripping down to my knees when they came in the room.
The toy slides inside me almost to the hilt, the smaller than normal knot on the base grinding against my engorged clit. I swallow a gasp against the back of my hand, wondering if I should shove a mouthful of the sheet in my mouth before I give myself away.
But why do I need to keep quiet, my inner omega wonders. Maybe those alphas want to hear it. Maybe they’ll come running if they do, ready to give me a knot that isn’t made of silicone.
My back arches involuntarily at the thought, fingers clawing at the unfamiliar sheets as something deep and primal uncoils inside me. This isn’t the controlled, clinical release I’ve allowed myself in the past—this is a wildfire, a storm of sensation that threatens to consume me whole.
Instead of covering my mouth, my free hand joins the one holding the toy so I can press down with even more force as my hips grind up to meet it.
Usually, it takes me forever to come and the build-up is more frustrating than the ending is satisfying. But that isn’t what is happening right now. Pressure builds between my legs with almost terrifying speed. I feel my pulse in parts of my body that I would never associate with pleasure, the bend of my neck practically aches with the desire for a bite and my writhing hips desperate for over-large hands to hold them in place.
The bed creaks beneath me as I twist, seeking more contact, more pressure, but I don’t feel embarrassed by what has to be an unmistakable sound if they hear it through the wall.
Those voices don’t get any louder, but the gruffness and low pitch ofalphamight as well be a physical touch on my skin.
Are the getting closer? Would they break down the locked door if they heard me begging for them?
Time dissolves into a series of sensations: the cool slide of the toy against overheated flesh, the way my nipples tighten painfully with each brush of fabric against them, the still growing slickness between my thighs that carries my scent—rich, musky, unmistakably omega. I should be horrified by this loss of control, by the way my body is betraying years of careful suppression. Instead, I find myself chasing each wave of pleasure, my hips moving in instinctive rhythms I didn’t know I possessed as I thrust the toy deeper.
I moan loudly enough that the sound echoes off the ceiling and back to me, lingering in the air.
Can they hear me?
Would I even be able to stop if I knew they could?
My skin feels too tight, like I could crawl right out of it if the need for orgasm is denied to me. The thought of stopping makes my vision swim with something dangerously close to tears—not of sadness, but of frustration so intense it borders on pain.
What would I do if they came in right now?
I imagine the three of them standing over me, a wall of alpha aggression and demand, watching as I fuck myself into oblivion.
The thought of it is what sends me over the edge.
“Alpha…”
Release crashes over me with an intensity that tears a scream from my throat before I can stifle it. For a moment, everything goes white—my vision, my thoughts, the world itself reduced to pure sensation.
