Chapter Eighteen
Emery
Istare at the ceiling.
The darkness feels heavier tonight—thicker, like it’s pressing down on my chest instead of settling around me—and the house creaks softly as heat moves through old pipes, the radiator ticking in uneven bursts.
My blankets are pulled up to my ribs, my body tucked in tight the way it always is when I’m trying to convince myself I’m safe, and I should really be asleep.
But every nerve in my body is lit.
The sound of water hissing vibrates faintly through the walls, threading straight through my chest and down into my belly. I squeeze my eyes shut, jaw tightening as I try to breathe through it.
It’s just heightened instincts. That’s all. Proximity. Alpha high. The win. The house full of lingering scent, dominance still hanging in the air like fog over the lake.
That’s what I tell myself, over and over, as if logic will override biology. As if reason can explain why my skin feels too tight, too warm, too aware. Why my nipples are pebbled beneath my shirt, the fabric suddenly too abrasive. Why my thighs are pressed together under the blanket, a low ache blooming where I’m already slick and swollen.
But my body doesn’t care about logic.
Not when it knows exactly who’s naked in the shower.
The image forms before I can stop it; unbidden and vivid. Beau, broad and backlit by steam, hands braced against the tile, muscles flexed beneath soaked skin. His head bowed, and his jaw clenched. His breath fogging up the mirror because he’s not just washing off the game.
Not anymore.
My thighs press tighter as I shift beneath the covers, restless, my pulse skittering as heat builds low and liquid between my legs.
And it’s not just Beau’s energy crawling under my skin—it’s all of them.
My memory is full of alpha scent, having been overwhelmed these last few days. It lingers in my mind, sharp and earthy and sweet and musky—each one distinct, and all of them too much.
Theo’s is the cleanest, refined and restrained, but there’s a reverent intensity to it that lights something inside me every time he speaks. I imagine him now, crouched between my legs, his voice steady and coaxing as he tells me to let go, to fall apart for him.
He’d be gentle, but thorough. Devoted.
Worshipful.
And then there’s Connor. His scent is always closest to laughter and fire—like leather and open air, reckless and warm. He’d tease first; push just enough to get me flustered, then pin me down with nothing but his voice and a smirk. I can see the glint in his eyes as he murmurs something filthy against my throat, his fingers already inside me before I could gasp his name.
I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my face in the pillow as my body throbs with need.
I’msoaked.
Slick coats the inside of my thighs, sticky and hot, and when my hand slides beneath the blanket, down past my stomach and into my pajama shorts, my fingers glide over soaked skin and swollen flesh like I’ve already been edged for hours.
My clit is throbbing, flushed and tender. I barely brush it and a soft whimper escapes me.
I tell myself to stop. That this is hormonal. Instinct-driven. Nothing more.
I last three seconds. Maybe less.
My fingers start to move, tracing slow, light circles over my unbearably sensitive clit. The sensation pulses outward in sharp, perfect jolts, and I exhale shakily, my hips tilting up, chasing more friction, more pressure. My pussy clenches around nothing, fluttering with the desperate promise of being filled.
Slick seeps down further, pooling beneath me, coatingeverything.
The sound of the shower changes—faster now, harsher. Spray striking tile with rhythm. A beat. A body moving.
My mind fills in the rest.
