“I’m just saying,” Dax mutters, eyes going distant. “Silicone can’t be the same. It just can’t.”
The image is absolutely devastating to my self-control.
Sierra, legs spread, working a knotted dildo inside her slick heat. But it’s not enough. Too small, too hard, too cold. She wants a real alpha knot, wants the heat and the pulse and the way it would swell inside her and lock them together.
She wants?—
“Stop,” I manage. But it’s too late. The image is there, and my knot is already swelling in response.
“Why?” Dax challenges. “We’re all thinking it. Might as well be honest.”
He’s right. And maybe that’s what I need to do. Be honest. Stop hiding behind professional distance.
But before I can say anything, a sound from down the hall cuts through the tension.
Muffled but unmistakable, it’s Sierra, making some small noise that could be pleasure or frustration or need.
We all freeze.
My observation skills are now a curse. Because I can hear things in that sound that the others might miss. The note of frustration beneath the pleasure. The desperate edge. The way it cuts off abruptly, like she’s trying to stay quiet.
She’s struggling. And I know it.
“Fuck,” Dax breathes. “Was that...”
We strain to hear, every alpha sense focused in that direction. For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the storm outside and Cole trying to breathe through his rut on the porch.
Then another sound. Quieter, but definitely there. Definitely Sierra.
My knot swells in response, pressing against my shorts, and I have to close my eyes and count backwards from a hundred in prime numbers just to maintain some semblance of control.
Distraction. It usually works.
Not today.
When I open my eyes again, both Dax and Malik are in the same boat. Obvious bulges straining against their pants, scents gone thick with rut.
The back door opens, and Cole steps back inside, shaking the rain off his shirt. He freezes, looking between us. “What? What happened?”
“We heard her,” Malik says quietly.
Cole’s eyes go dark. “Fuck.”
“We should set up a rotation,” Malik says suddenly, voice strained. “Patrol the hallway every few hours. Listen for distress. Make sure she’s taking the food. That way we can monitor how she’s doing without being intrusive.”
“Good idea,” I agree, relieved to have something concrete to focus on. Something I can actually control. “Who wants first shift?”
“I’ll do it,” Dax offers. “Give me something to do besides pace and imagine—” He cuts himself off, but we all know where that sentence was going.
Imagine her using those toys. Imagine the sounds she makes. Imagine what she looks like when she comes.
My rut surges at the thought, and I have to grip the arm of the chair I’m standing next to with my good hand, my injured one throbbing in time with my pulse.
I’ve spent too long not imagining these things. Too long being careful, being professional, being the rival she expected instead of the alpha who wanted more. Too long noticing everything while pretending to notice nothing.
And now everything is crumbling under the weight of her heat and my rut and the knowledge that she’s just down the hall right now, alone and aching and using toys that won’t be enough.
“Okay,” Malik says, taking charge. “Dax takes first check-in, in about two hours. Then me, then Jalen, then Cole. We keep it brief, professional, just make sure she has what she needs.”
