The song fades.Another one starts—slower, sadder. I skip ahead.
And that’s when my body reminds me why I couldn’t sleep last night.
It starts low. A pulse of heat between my legs, sudden and insistent. I shift in my seat, pressing my thighs together, and the friction only makes it worse.
What the hell?
My skin feels too tight. Flushed. I crack the window an inch and cold air rushes in, hitting my cheeks, but the heat doesn’t go away. It spreads—up through my belly, across my chest, settling in my breasts until my nipples ache against my bra.
This isn’t normal. None of this is anywhere close to normal.
I’ve been on suppressants for seven years—seven years of nothing, no heats, no slick, no inconvenient biological responses getting in the way of my carefully organized life. I’m not supposed to feel like this, not supposed to be squirming in my seat on the way to a business meeting, wet and wanting for no reason at all.
Except there is a reason. Elijah, yesterday.
Because it’s you.
Just the memory of his voice—rough and low and honest—and fresh heat floods through me. I grip the steering wheel, breathing through it.
He caught me on the ice. Arms around me before I even registered I was falling. Solid chest, strong hands, his scent filling my lungs—cedar and sawdust andalpha—and I went slick so fast it soaked through my underwear right there on Main Street.
That’s not supposed to happen. Not on suppressants. Not from beingheld.
But my body didn’t care about supposed to. My body wanted.
And then after. The bakery.You needed something. I could give it. That’s enough.Like it was simple. Like I was worth inconveniencing himself for.
No one’s ever talked to me like that.
The heat pulses again, low and deep. I press my hand against my lower belly, feeling the ache there, insistent and growing.
This has been happening more and more lately. Little flashes of want, moments where my body responds to things it shouldn’t. It started maybe a month ago—just occasional warmth, heightened awareness of scents. But it’s getting stronger. More frequent.
What is happening to me?
And then—the snow. Walking back to my office, flakes drifting down around us. I looked up to catch one on my tongue, feeling like a kid, feelinghappy, and when I looked back at him he was staring at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed my cheek. And I forgot how to breathe.
Elijah Smith. Quiet, steady Elijah who barely strings two sentences together, who’s apparently been paying attention for three years while I was too busy color-coding my calendar to notice.
I noticed yesterday. And I’m noticing right now, alone in my car, wet and aching just from the memory of his hands on me. So much for my carefully compartmentalized life.
The road curves sharply.I slow down, focus on the pavement. The snow is accumulating now—an inch, maybe more. I should probably be thinking about road conditions.
I’m thinking about Milo instead.
Milo Stone. That ridiculous, flirty, impossible man.
A smile tugs at my mouth. It always does with Milo. That’s his superpower—making people smile even when they don’t want to.
Last week at the bar, he slid a drink across the counter before I even ordered.
“Figured you could use this. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re about three spreadsheets away from a breakdown.” He winked—that devastating, stupid wink—and my stomach actually flipped. “Drink up, sweetheart. The world won’t end if you relax for five minutes.”
