Sex during heat—five days of intense sexual need, when our bodies are in a desperate battle to procreate—feels good. Really, really good. I’ve heard sex with an alpha during heat is the best kind of sex of all. The sort betas crave. Because who wouldn’t want a big, strong, sexy alpha railing her non-stop for five days straight?
Sex with Elias when it wasn’t even my heat was… incredible doesn’t do justice. He was late for work because we made love again in the morning. He didn’t care. I should have, but I didn’t either. He just laughed as he turned his alarm clock off and slid back inside me.
My pussy throbs, and I order myself to stop thinking of sex. It’s not helping me control urges I’ve had for a very long time. Years, in fact. When I was with Derek, I loved him, but I’dsecretly wanted to experience heat with an alpha once, just to see what it was like.
With Derek, when heat came around, I took the pills that made the pain manageable and built a nest on a rug when I craved soft, cozy things to ease my aching body. I wasn’t the least bit interested in sex with Derek. He was a beta and couldn’t make me feel the way only an alpha could. My body knew it, and he knew it too.
So I nested and counted down the days until my breasts were no longer sore, my stomach stopped cramping, and I stopped having dreams about growling alphas who covered my body with bites as they knotted me. Their cocks would swell and lock inside me, extending our climax and driving our pleasure even higher.
I would wake with the fading memories of dominating alphas who weren’t shy about taking what they wanted from my body, claiming me in ways that felt so primal I wanted to live in my dreams forever. But I would wake with a moan of frustration and my hand buried between my thighs on sweat-dampened sheets.
Derek never asked about what I dreamed about. I think he knew it would only make him feel inadequate in some way. But now I’m away from him, living in a house with four alphas who have told me repeatedly and shown me much more than that, that they’d do anything for me.
Instead of taking a pill, I could have them.
Still pondering my options, I walk downstairs, needing to talk about this.
It’s quiet, just me and Wyatt today.
After a morning spent with him watching me bake pies while he reclined in a dining chair and sipped on his mug of coffee, he went out to his workshop, and I went upstairs to wash up and nap for a bit.
Life these last few days has felt so normal, but in the happiest, most perfect way. There’s been no pressure for sex. Notalk of relationships or the future, which I think they must know still scares me, even though there’s been no sighting of Derek in town. Just five people laughing, getting to know each other, and learning to live together.
Wyatt’s workshop, which is more of a shed, is about a minute's walk from the back of the house. He told me before he went out that he’d leave the door open. If I needed anything, I should shout; he’d hear me.
The warmth of a mild fall early afternoon feels good on my bare legs and arms. We’re fast approaching jeans and sweatpants weather, but for now, I’m happiest in a pair of shorts and a tank top like today, or a thin cotton dress so I don’t roast in the kitchen, where I spend most of my day baking.
As I run down the back porch stairs and head toward Wyatt’s workshop, I’m still not sure what I’m going to tell him about my heat. I need to say something before my scent gets stronger—there’s a reason an omega’s scent is called a perfume—and their body reacts to it. It will trigger their need to dominate me, and this rampant, desperate need for five days of sex is not something you want to surprise someone with, if only so we can let our bosses know why we’d need to call out of work.
Not wanting to interrupt him too much, I mentally rehearse what I’ll say when I get in.
I’ll tell him I need more suppressants from the doctor in town or maybe find out from the sheriff if my purse survived the fire.
That’s it.
But I’ll see what he says first. If he offers to help me through my heat, then I guess I’ll say yes. It would be rude to say no, wouldn’t it?
Don’t look at anything he’s working on in case it’s private.
The moment I push the partially open door the rest of the way, all thoughts of little white pills to kill the sexual fire that floods my body every three months go out of the window. I seethe half-naked man, shoulders and tanned back glistening with sweat, and all I do is want.
Elias said Wyatt had a workshop out back, but he never told me what Wyatt makes, and I was too shy to ask in case he thought I was prying.
It’s like a furnace in here. Hot and smoky, it smells of heat and cold iron.
Two minutes ago, I was all about nesting—laying out blankets on the floor and hunting out even more soft and cozy things to snuggle on. In here, my thoughts are not soft or cozy.
They are primal and raw.
There’s a big wooden table with clamps that I want Wyatt to splay me out on and fuck me on it.
Hard.
With his back to me, he plunges the end of a red-hot metal tong into a large wooden tub of water. It sizzles, steam rises, coating him in fine sweat. As he picks up a rag from beside him and drags it over his brow, every muscle in his back ripples.
I whimper.
At the small sound, he glances my way, doing a double take. “Maisie?”
