“Then that’s her choice,” Jalen interrupts quietly, but his jaw is tight. His hands are gripping his cards so hard they’re starting to crumple.
Another whimper.
“Fuck this,” I say, standing up so abruptly my chair scrapes against the floor. “I need a minute.”
I don’t wait for a response. Don’t explain where I’m going or why. I just head for the bathroom and close the door behind me.
The moment I’m alone, my composure shatters.
I lean back against the door and close my eyes, trying to get my breathing under control. But all I can smell is her. Honeycomb and heat and slick. So much slick.
My hand moves to my waistband before I’ve consciously decided to do this.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. This isn’t what she needs, isn’t what any of us need. Getting myself off isn’t going to solve the problem. Isn’t going to help her.
But I can’t stop.
My shorts hit the floor, followed by my boxers. My cock springs free, already hard and leaking. My knot is swollen at the base, pulsing with the need to lock into something. Into someone.
Into her.
I wrap my hand around my shaft and stroke once, experimentally. Pleasure shoots up my spine, so sharp and intense that I have to bite back a groan.
This is pathetic. I’m pathetic. Standing in the bathroom, jerking off while the omega I could be helping is down the hall suffering.
But I can’t help her. She hasn’t asked. And I won’t push. I won’t be that alpha.
So instead, I stroke myself harder, faster, chasing relief I know won’t really come.
I imagine what it would be like if she did ask. If she opened her door and looked at me with those light-brown eyes and said, “Please, Cole. I need help.”
I’d be in her nest so fast. Would gather her into my arms, scent her properly, let my alpha soothe her frayed nerves.
I’d kiss her. Slow at first, gentle, giving her time to adjust to having an alpha so close during her heat. But then she’d whimper into my mouth, would press against me, and I’d know she needed more.
I’d lay her back in her nest, spread her thighs, and?—
“Fuck,” I gasp, stroking faster. My knot is throbbing now, swelling impossibly larger, seeking the tight heat it’s designed for.
In my fantasy, Sierra is beneath me. Her nest is soft and warmand smells like both of us combined. Her legs are wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer, and when I finally push inside her?—
I come with a strangled groan, spilling over my hand and onto the floor. My knot pulses, locking around nothing, and the emptiness is almost worse than the need.
Because I’m not inside her. Not helping her. Not giving her what she needs.
I’m just standing here, coming into my hand like a teenager who can’t control himself.
The pleasure fades quickly, replaced by shame and a deep frustration that makes me want to punch something.
This didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse.
Because now I know exactly how good it would feel to be inside her. How perfect she would be. How right.
And I can’t have it.
Not unless she asks.
I clean up quickly, disgusted with myself, and pull my clothes back on. My knot is already swelling again. The rut isn’t satisfied. Won’t be satisfied until I’m locked inside an omega.
