I go to bed early, stripping my bed of the blanket and bedspread, and fall asleep under nothing but the top sheet.
5
Lucien
Iwakedisorientedandhot. Not warm. Hot. Motherfucking hot. So hot, my feet are tangled in my sheets, and I find my pajamas crumpled in a heap on the floor next to my bed.
My dick is hard, but that’s perfectly normal. I wake up with morning wood every morning. It’s natural and healthy. An indication of adequate blood flow and hormonal function, more than anything else. It’s nothing to get worked up about.
I ignore it and go to the bathroom to splash my face.
I admit, what I see in the mirror is something to get slightly worked up about. My face is pale, skin glowing and clear, and there’s a distinctive pink blush on my cheeks.
Pale pink.
Rose pink.
Heat pink.
I splash my face repeatedly, with water as cold as I can get it. It does nothing to help.
My erection persists too, even after I get into the shower and subject it to the same treatment.
It’s clear this boner is an attention seeker, not one to be fobbed off by a frigid waterboarding, so I decide to give it a tug and let that be the end of it.
Cold water runs down my body, an icy sheet that feels a lot like what sinking into a hot bath after a long day usually does. It’s a worry because I usually hate cold showers with my whole heart and soul.
I look down, eyeing my cock with distrust.
If I truly am going into heat, I won’t be able to touch it. The sensation will be unbearable. To be on the safe side, I cant my hips to give it another cold blast. It feels unpleasant, but that’s normal. Boners are known not to be fans of cold water.
I reach down gingerly and circle my shaft at the base. When that doesn’t feel too bad, I give a gentle upward tug.
The result is immediate and hair-raising. A sensory overload so intense that I emit a loud squawk as I wrench my hand off my dick. The sensation persists after my hand is gone. I feel it in my cock. In my balls. In my teeth. I feel it so hard and strong, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and not in a good way.
Right.
Okay then.
This is happening.
It’s not a figment of my imagination or a psychosomatic disorder. I am going into heat. In a cabin in the middle of goddamn nowhere, with an alpha I hardly know, and no way to escape.
I get out of the shower and pat myself dry with a towel, taking great care to avoid my dick.
I shuffle, wide-kneed, to my room and perform yet another thorough search of my possessions, this time in the hopes of finding a sturdy knot dildo that I don’t remember packing—or owning, for that matter.
My mind is racing, and if it weren’t for the fact I’m hotter and more bothered than I can ever recall being, I’d be in a flat panic. Things being what they are, the heat coursing through my veins makes it hard to think of anything else.
After three quick changes of clothes, I settle on a loose pair of pants and a long T-shirt that hides my boner if I lean forward at an awkward angle. My waistband feels too tight and the T-shirt is scratchy as hell, but it’s the best I can do.
Fortunately, I’m so hungry that I hardly care what I look like.
I hit the fridge with determination, attacking a bunch of grapes, a block of cheese, and mowing down the eggs and bacon Branson puts in my path.
“Bit hungry,” I say redundantly, when I feel his eyes on me.
“Yes,” he agrees, and then, for some reason, feels compelled to add, “your body needs the calories. Eat whatever you want, and don’t worry, it will all be eliminated before the first heat wave hits.”
