“I’m fine,” I call back, proud of how normal I sound even though I’m literally naked in my nest with a vibrator in my hand and slick coating my thighs. “Just... nesting.”
There’s a pause. I can almost hear him processing that, deciding what to say next. Can hear him breathing on the other side of the door, and that shouldn’t be as arousing as it is.
“Do you need anything?” he finally asks. “Water? Food? We’ve got plenty of supplies.”
The mention of food makes me realize I’m actually hungry. Not heat-hungry, but actually hungry. When was the last time I ate? Breakfast feels like three years ago.
“Actually,” I say, setting down the vibrator and reaching for my discarded shirt. “Ice cream? I brought some.”
“Ice cream?”
“Yeah. There’s Ben, Jerry, Haagen, and Dazs. Haagen is the rocky road one. I have a thing for marshmallows.”
The words are out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to die.
I have a thing for marshmallows? To Jalen? Who smells like toasted marshmallows? While I’m in pre-heat and producing enough slick to flood a small country?
Could I be any more obvious?
I press my hands over my face and wait for the embarrassment to kill me.
“Rocky road,” Jalen repeats, and I can hear the smile in his voice. He knows. He absolutely knows what I just accidentally said. “Coming right up.”
His footsteps retreat down the hallway, and I let out a breath.
Smooth, Sierra. Real smooth.
I pull my shirt back on and seriously consider just staying here until the heat passes and I die of mortification. The two might happen simultaneously at this rate.
Another wave hits, harder this time. My back arches off the pillows. A small sound escapes my throat before I can bite it back. Somewhere between a whimper and a moan.
I clap my hand over my mouth.
Can they hear me? Please God, tell me they can’t hear me.
The house is big. The music is playing. They’re dealing with their own ruts. They definitely can’t hear?—
A growl echoes through the house. Low and deep and unmistakably alpha.
My whole body responds as if someone just touched a live wire to my skin. More slick, more heat, more need flooding through me until I’m trembling with it.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck!
The small vibrator isn’t going to cut it. Not even close.
My hand goes back to my bag, digging deeper this time. Past the bottle of lube, past the backup batteries, until my fingers close around familiar purple silicone.
The good one. The one with a proper knot at the base because regular vibrators don’t cut it during a heat. I’ve had it for years, and it’s gotten me through more heats than I can count.
I pull it out and just stare at it for a moment, lying against my palm. It’s substantial, with textures and ridges that mimic the real thing. The knot at the base is perfect, designed to catch and stretch and lock.
But as I look at it now, all I can think about is that it’s not real. It’s not attached to an alpha. It won’t come with the weight of a body pressing me into the mattress or hands gripping my hips or teeth at my throat.
It won’t smell like burned caramel or vanilla ice-cream or toasted marshmallow or cinnamon-glazed pecans.
Another wave crashes through me, and I stop thinking altogether.
