“This is hell,” Dax says.
“Yep.”
“Actual, literal hell.”
“Yep.”
Thunder crashes. We both grip the edge of the table.
Four or five more days of this. Minimum.
I’m not going to make it.
Dax
I’ve been in the garage for two hours, beating the heavy bag someone hung in the corner until my knuckles split open again.
It’s not helping.
The rhythmic thud of leather against my fists should be grounding. Should burn off some of this aggressive energy coursing through my veins. But all it’s doing is giving my mind space to wander.
To imagine.
I can still smell her from here. The garage isn’t sealed well enough to keep out her heat-scent, and every breath brings another wave of honeycomb and cherry syrup that makes my knot throb.
I hit the bag harder, trying to focus on the pain instead of the ache.
But my mind keeps drifting back to that door. To what’s happening behind it.
Is she in her nest right now? Surrounded by pillows, skin flushed with heat? I imagine her sprawled across those blankets,thighs spread, one hand between her legs while the other grips the sheets.
Fuck.
I shake my head, trying to clear the image, but it’s burned into my brain now.
I’ve spent months watching Sierra Smith. Watching her lean forward when she’s making a point, animated and passionate. The way her eyes flash when someone challenges her.
The way she bites her lip when she’s thinking.
I’ve wondered what else makes her bite that lip. What sounds she makes when she’s not in control. Whether she’d fight for dominance even in bed, or if she’d finally let go of that iron grip she keeps on everything.
Another wave of her scent hits me, and I groan, leaning against the heavy bag.
She’s producing so much slick. I can smell it from here, sweet and desperate. Her body is calling for an alpha, advertising her need to anyone within range.
And I’m out here, punching an inanimate object like it’s going to solve anything.
I imagine what it would be like if she opened that door. If she called for me specifically. “Dax, I need you.”
I’d be there in seconds. Would gather her into my arms, let her feel how hard I am for her. How ready. Would press my face to her neck and breathe her in properly.
Would she wrap her legs around my waist? Pull me down into that nest? Tell me exactly what she needs in that sweet voice that always gets under my skin?
My cock throbs at the thought.
I imagine spreading her thighs and seeing the evidence of her heat. All that slick, her body so ready, so desperate for a knot. Would she be swollen? Sensitive? Would she gasp when I first touched her?
I’d take my time. Would work her with my fingers first, learning what makes her moan. Would she be the type to giveinstructions, to tell me faster or slower or right there? Or would she be too far gone, too desperate to form words?
