She disappears into the kitchen, and I want to cry. I want to tell her not to bother, that I can't eat anything, that I can barely sit upright. But she's already gone, and I can hear her humming as she plates the cakes, happy and unsuspecting.
She returns with a tray, setting a small ramekin in front of each of us. The chocolate is still molten in the center, steam rising from the cracks in the top. It smells rich and sweet and normally I would already be reaching for my spoon.
Tonight, the smell makes my stomach lurch.
"Go on, try it!" Margot settles back into her seat, watching us expectantly. "I tried a new recipe. There's a hint of espresso in the batter."
Richard takes a bite. Nods approvingly. "Excellent, darling."
Atlas murmurs something complimentary. Zero doesn't touch his. Bane takes a small bite, but I can see his attention isn't on the dessert.
Margot looks at me. "Max? What do you think?"
I pick up my spoon. Scoop up a tiny bite. Bring it to my mouth.
The chocolate hits my tongue and my stomach revolts.
I set the spoon down. Push back from the table. "I'm sorry, I—I don't feel well. I think I need to lie down."
"Max—" Margot's face creases with concern. She's half out of her chair before I can stop her.
"I'm fine, really. I think I'm just coming down with something." I'm already moving toward the door, desperate to escape before another wave hits. "I'll check the clinic tomorrow before class. It's probably just a bug."
"Do you want me to bring you some tea? Or soup? I can—"
"No, please. Stay. Enjoy dessert." I manage something that's probably supposed to be a smile. "I just need to sleep it off."
I don't wait for her response. Can't. The heat is building again, pressure mounting behind my eyes, in my chest, between my legs. If I don't get out of here in the next thirty seconds, something very bad is going to happen.
I take the stairs two at a time. Make it to my room. Lock the door.
Stand there, shaking, burning, barely holding on.
Bathroom. Cold water.Now.
I strip as I walk, leaving a trail of clothes across my floor—hoodie, t-shirt, jeans, boxers. By the time I reach the bathroom, I'm naked and trembling, my skin so hot it feels like it might actually catch fire.
The shower is cold. Freezing. I turn the knob all the way and step under the spray before it's even fully running.
The shock of it steals my breath. Ice water pounds against my overheated skin, and I gasp, brace my hands against the tile wall, let it wash over me.
It helps. A little. The roaring in my veins dims to a dull thunder. The pressure in my head eases slightly.
But it's not enough.
I was already half-hard before I even made it up the stairs—had been fighting it all through dinner, willing my body to behave while three alphas stared at me across the table. Now, even with cold water sluicing down my body, I'm still hard. Achingly, impossibly hard, my cock jutting out from my body like it has its own agenda. And lower, deeper, there's that hollow ache that wantsmore. That emptiness that demands to be filled.
I close my eyes. Try to think of nothing. Try to will my body into submission.
It doesn't work.
My cock throbs with every heartbeat, so hard it almost hurts. I can feel the slick gathering between my cheeks—that shameful omega wetness that no amount of cold water can stop. My hole clenches around nothing, desperate, empty, aching for something to fill it.
I've never felt this out of control. This needy. My whole body is screaming for relief, for touch, formore.
My hand drifts down without permission. Wraps around myself.
The sound that escapes me is embarrassing—a choked, desperate moan that echoes off the tile. I'm so sensitive it's almost painful, the lightest touch sending sparks up my spine. I squeeze my eyes shut and stroke myself once, twice, trying to take the edge off.
