She wipes at her tears with the back of her hand, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I thought you hated me,” she says.
“I can’t hate you,” I say, the words a simple, undeniable truth. I could be angry with her. Disappointed in her, yes, but I could never hate her.
“Fuck,” she says, rolling her head back, exposing the long, slender column of her neck. The scent gets stronger, an intoxicating wave that makes my head spin. “It hurts.”
“I should call 911 or something,” I say, my mind racing. I’ve been trained for this, for emergency situations. I know the protocol. But suddenly, I can’t remember any of it. All I can think about is her, the scent of her, the pain she’s in.
“It won’t help,” she says, her voice tight with discomfort. “There are no suppressants in town.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. I’m not even sure if I want to ask her what she means, so instead, I ask the only thing that matters. “What can I do?”
“A bath always helps,” she says, her voice a little stronger now, a hint of hope in her tone. “The cold water... it helps.”
Okay. Fuck. Okay. A bath. I can do that. I can help her with that.
I walk past her, into the bathroom, my movements stiff, awkward. I bite my cheek, the sharp pain a welcome distraction from the ache in my groin. I have to focus. She needs help. I will help her. That’s all that matters.
The bathroom is small, tidy, with a stack of fluffy towels on the shelf and a collection of bath bombs and oils arranged on the counter. I turn on the faucet, the sound of the rushing water filling the small space. I test the temperature, making sure it’s cold, just the way she needs it.
As I wait for the tub to fill, I can hear her soft whimpers from the bedroom, and each sound is a fresh stab of pain. I want to go to her, to hold her, to tell her everything will be okay. But I can’t. I have to keep my distance. I have to control myself.
The tub is almost full now, the water a clear, cold pool. I turn off the faucet and take a deep breath, steeling myself for what comes next.
“Millie,” I call out, my voice tight. “The bath is ready.”
I walk out of the bathroom, the scent of her heat hitting me like a physical wall. It’s thicker now, more potent, a sweet aroma that makes my head spin and my cock ache. And then I see her.
She’s on the floor, right where I left her, but the towel is gone. Her legs are spread, her fingers buried between her thighs, moving frantically. Her head is thrown back, her back arched, a picture of pure, unadulterated need.
I stop dead in my tracks. I swallow, my throat dry. This is wrong. This is so wrong. I should leave. I should turn around and walk out that door and never look back.
“Should I... should I leave?” I ask, the words a hoarse whisper.
She opens her eyes, and they’re fixed on me, dark with desire. “You smell so good,” she says, her voice a low, husky purr. “So fucking good.”
“No,” I beg. “Don’t.”
But she doesn’t listen. She drops her hand from between her legs and crawls toward me, her movements fluid, predatory. Her nipples are hard and pebbled in the cool air.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice cracking as she reaches me.
She kneels in front of me, her face level with my crotch. She nuzzles her nose against my pants, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips.
“Maddox,” she groans, and the sound vibrates through me, straight to my cock.
“Millie,” I curse, my hands fisting at my sides. “Don’t do this. Please.”
I bite my fist. It’s all I can do to stop myself from touching her.
I watch helplessly as she rubs herself against my leg, her cheek pressed against my lap. Her scent grows stronger, more intoxicating with every passing second.
“I need this,” she says. “I need you.”
I cup her head, my fingers tangling in her damp hair. I look down at her, at her upturned face, at her swollen lips, at the need in her eyes. My resolve is crumbling, piece by piece.
“Did you fuck Knox?” I ask, the question torn from me, a desperate attempt to hold on to some semblance of control.
She shakes her head, her gaze never leaving mine. “No.”
