I don't even bother trying to be dignified about it. Dignity left the building about six orgasms ago.
I collapse onto the rug, pushing myself up onto my hands and knees. The position feels humiliatingly natural. My hips automatically tilt up, my back arching, presenting myself to the ghost of the Alpha who did this to me. I hate it. I hate how right it feels.
I squeeze a glob of lube onto my hand, the cold gel making me flinch, and reach back.
My hand is shaking so bad I miss at first, smearing slick over my cheek, but then I find the spot. I push one finger in.
A whine rips out of my throat, high and pathetic. It’s tight—too tight—but the friction sends a jolt of relief straight up my spine that makes my toes curl into the carpet.
"Fuck," I pant, pushing deeper. "Fuck, fuck..."
I add a second finger, scissoring them, trying to hit the spot that’s screaming the loudest. I pump my hand, my hips bucking back to meet the thrusts, desperate to chase the sensation. It feels good, in a sharp, stinging way, but it’s... wrong.
It’s all wrong.
My fingers are too thin. They’re too short. They don't carry any weight. They slide in and out without resistance, without that heavy, tearing stretch that my body is screaming for. I’m just poking at the hunger, not feeding it.
I dig deeper, twisting my wrist, trying to reach that deep, internal itch that feels like it’s buried in my soul. I hit my prostate and a white-hot spark of pleasure explodes behind my eyes, making me drool onto the rug, but it fades instantly, leaving the ache twice as bad as before.
"Not enough," I sob, the words wet and broken. "It’s not... it’s not enough."
I rock my hips frantically, fucking my own hand, but it’s like trying to put out a forest fire with a water pistol. I need mass.I need heat. I need something that hurts. I need that terrifying, suffocating pressure of a knot locking me down and holding me still.
I needhim.
The realization makes me want to vomit. I pull my fingers out, frustration spiking into rage, and slam my fist against the floor.
"Why isn't it working?" I scream, my voice raw.
My hole throbs, empty and slick and unsatisfied, mocking me. The fever spikes again, hotter this time, a delirious haze that blurs the edges of the room. I collapse onto my forearms, panting, sweat dripping from my nose, my ass in the air like a billboard advertising my own ruin. I’m empty. I’m so fucking empty it hurts.
A sound cuts through the haze like a drill to the temple.
Ding-dong.
It echoes, bouncing off the walls of my skull, sharp and irritating. I flinch, curling tighter into the rug, pressing my hands over my ears. Make it stop. My head is pounding, a rhythmic thudding that matches the frantic, unsatisfied beat of my heart.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Sihwan! Open the damn door!"
The voice vibrates through the floorboards. It’s deep. Impatient. It scratches against my eardrums, and for a second, I just want to scream at whoever it is to leave me to die in my puddle of misery.
But then the sound registers. Not the words, but thetone. The pitch. It tugs at something in my gut, a hook snagging on a raw nerve.
My body moves before my brain gives permission. I scramble up, my knees knocking together, feet slipping on the slick hardwood. I catch myself on the wall, leaving a sweaty handprinton the pristine white paint. I’m panting, my chest heaving like I’ve just sprinted a 500-meter freestyle, but I keep moving.
I stumble down the hallway, bouncing off the doorframe. I’m a mess. I know I’m a mess. I’m half-naked, shivering, and I probably smell like a locker room that hasn't been cleaned in a decade. But the pounding on the door is the only thing that exists. It’s a beacon.
I reach the entryway, fumbling with the lock. My fingers are clumsy, numb, refusing to cooperate. I curse, a wet, garbled sound, and finally, the deadbolt clicks.
I throw the door open.
The light from the hallway stabs my eyes, blinding and white. I squint, swaying on my feet, trying to focus on the figure looming in front of me.
Black clothes. Tall. Annoyed expression.
"What the f—"
