He stops.
The air shifts. It happens in a split second. One moment, I’m staring at a blurry shape; the next, the scent hits me.
It’s not the stale, suffocating heat of my apartment. It’s cold. It’s biting. It smells like snow on asphalt, like bitter ink and ginseng. It smells likehim.
Winter. Sharp. Right.
The recognition slams into me. The ache in my gut, the hollowness in my ass, the fever burning my skin—it all snaps into focus. The answer isn't a pill or a hand or a memory. It’s right here.
My vision tunnels. The last shred of my rational brain, the part that cares about dignity or hierarchy or the fact that I hate his guts, evaporates.
"Are you in fucking rut?" he starts, his nose flaring.
I don't let him finish.
I lunge. I grab the front of his shirt, my fingers digging into the fabric, and I yank him forward with everything I have.
He stumbles, caught off guard, and I drag him over the threshold. I kick the door shut behind him—I don't even know if it latches—and shove him backward.
We crash into the wall. The impact knocks the breath out of him, a heavythudthat shakes a picture frame loose. His hands fly up, landing on my bare arms to steady himself. His palms are cool, shockingly cool against my fever-hot skin, and the contact makes me hiss, my hips snapping forward instinctively.
He freezes, his grip on my arms tightening, his eyes wide as he stares down at me.
"You good?" His voice is rough, low.
I don't answer. I can't. I just bury my face in his neck, inhaling desperately, trying to drown in that cold, sharp scent.
I clutch at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's melting down. His shirt bunches under my fists, cool cotton against my scorching palms. I catch the look in his eyes—dark, pupils blown wide, nostrils flaring as my rut-scent slams into him full force. Hunger. Recognition. No smirk this time, just raw want.
I crash my mouth onto his a second before he can say anything stupid.
He groans into it, low and guttural, the sound vibrating straight down my spine. His tongue strokes against mine, hot and demanding, tasting like mint and that bitter ginseng edge that clings to him always. I sigh, melting against him, my whole body lighting up as I grind forward. Heart slamming in my chest, gut twisting tight with filthy satisfaction—his cock's rock-hard against mine, thick through his pants, matching my desperation beat for beat.
"Fuck," I rasp, dropping a hand to palm him over the denim. He hisses sharp, hips jerking up into my grip.
"Need you," I mutter against the salt of his neck, nipping the skin there. "Inside me. It fuckingaches."
He curses—something harsh and bitten-off—and shoves me back a step, just enough to yank at his shirt. Buttons strain. Fabric rips. It's not fast enough. My fingers hook the waistband of his pants as he peels the shirt off his shoulders, exposing lean muscle.
Too slow. Too goddamn slow. I fumble his button open, zipper dragging down with a rasp that echoes in my ears. His cock springs free as I shove pants and boxers to his thighs—heavy, flushed deep red, veins thick and pulsing, tip already slick.
My mouth waters. My ass clenches, empty and starving. Finally.
I moan, the sound ripping out of me raw and desperate, like I've been holding it in for days. My knees buckle, body screaming to worship that thick cock right there in front of me—hot, heavy, leaking for me. I start to sink, mouth watering, tongue already out like some heat-drunk slut.
His hands clamp my biceps, hauling me up hard. "Wait—fuck, I'm not gonna last if you do that."
The words barely register. I growl, low and pissed, twisting in his grip. Fuck waiting. I need it down my throat, need to choke on him until my rut shuts up. I lunge down anyway, teeth grazing air.
He snarls back, pheromones exploding—cold snap of winter, ink-sharp bite flooding my nose, my lungs, my brain. It hits like a gut punch, fuzzing everything out. The world spins, gray at the edges. My muscles go liquid, fight draining fast as my head lolls.
Suddenly, I'm flat on my back, couch cushions bouncing up under me. He's over me, caging me in, all lean power and elegant control. My legs are hooked over his shoulders before I can blink, thighs wrenched wide, my sweatpants stripped. Exposed. Dripping.
"Hey—" I rasp, half-protest, half-whine, hands scrabbling at his arms. Too much air on my hole, too empty.
"Fucking sit still," he grits, voice gravel-rough, eyes black with it.
I claw the couch leather instead, nails digging gouges, back arching off the cushions. Then his face drops between my thighs—breath ghosting hot first, making me twitch.
