"Come on, come on,fuck..."
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to fantasize. I try to picture the Omegas from the karaoke bar. Nothing. My brain rejects them. I try to picture generic faceless bodies. Static.
Then, unbidden, a flash of memory hits me.
Black hair. Sharp eyes. A smirk that makes me want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. The feeling of strong hands pinning my wrists. The weight of a body heavier than mine pressing me down.
Donghwa.
The name hits my system like a lightning strike.
I shout, my hips snapping up, and I come.
It’s violent. It’s messy. I spill hot fluid over my stomach and the sheets, my body seizing up, toes curling. I pant, waiting for the post-nut clarity. Waiting for the fog to lift.
It doesn't.
The orgasm fades in seconds, leaving me hollow. The pressure in my balls recedes for maybe a minute before surging back, twice as painful. My cock stays rock hard, twitching, leaking slick, demandingmore.
"No," I gasp, staring at the ceiling. "It didn't work. Why didn't it work?"
Because my hand isn'thim.
The realization makes me want to scream. My body doesn't just want friction. It wants a specific temperature. A specific texture. It wants the bite of winter air and ink. It wants the weight of the Alpha who claimed me.
I roll over, burying my face in the mattress, groaning into the fabric. The ache is consuming me now. It’s not just in my groin; it’s in my teeth, my chest, my fingers. I need to bite. I need to hold.
I drag a pillow under my hips, grinding down into it. It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. I am the heir to a hotel empire, and I am currently dry-humping a memory foam pillow like a dog in heat. But the friction is the only thing keeping me from clawing my own skin off.
I stroke myself again, harder this time, angry tears pricking the corners of my eyes.
"Stupid," I grit out, my breath coming in short, sharp pants. "Stupid... fucking... bond."
I come again. And again.
It solves nothing. The fever burns hotter. The cramps twist tighter. I’m trapped in a loop of biological torture, my body screaming for a mate who is probably sitting in class right now, completely fine, while I slowly lose my mind in a puddle of my own sweat.
By the time the afternoon sun starts slanting through the blinds, painting orange stripes across the disaster zone that is my bedroom, a new, fresh hell decides to introduce itself.
It starts as a heaviness. A weird, dragging weight in my pelvis that I try to ignore by burying my face in the pillow and screaming silently. But it doesn't go away. It sharpens. It turns into a pulse, a hot, rhythmic throb that isn't coming from my cock.
It’s coming from my ass.
I squeeze my eyes shut, grinding my teeth so hard I think a molar might crack. "No," I whisper into the damp mattress. "Absolutely fucking not."
I am a Dominant Alpha. I top. That is what I do. That is my biological function. I do not crave...insertion.
But my body apparently didn't get the memo. The ache intensifies, transforming from a dull throb into a sharp, demanding hunger. It feels like a phantom limb, except the limb is inside me. My muscles clench and spasm, trying to grip onto something that isn't there. It’s a hollowness that burns, a desperate, gaping need to be filled, stretched, and plugged.
It’s the knot. My body remembers the knot. It remembers being locked down and bred, and now that the fever is boiling my brain, it thinks that’s the only way to fix this.
I endure it for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of sweating and shaking and trying to think about baseball, or the stock market, or literally anything other than the feeling of my own entrance weeping for attention.
Then a cramp twists my gut so hard I gag, and I break.
"Fine!" I shout at the empty room, my voice cracking. "Fine, you piece of shit body, you win!"
I scramble up, my limbs heavy and uncoordinated, and crawl toward the nightstand. I knock over a glass of water, sending it shattering across the hardwood, but I don't care. I tear open the drawer, digging past the condoms and the loose change until my fingers close around a bottle of lube.
