He’s already hard and dripping when I sweep my tongue up his length, humming at that sweet citrus flavor. God, I could drink it all day.
Mylo’s trembling whimper turns my blood to pure fire. I sink my throat over him, then pull back so his next spurt lands on my tongue.
My clit throbs, begging for the shift, begging to become a knotted cock and claim him. I know how little it would take to rip through his clothes, bury my teeth in his neck, and let my instincts take over.
I’ve always shifted in patches here or there, but I haven’t sprung a cock since I was in college, insatiably horny as my hormones settled in. It’s something female alphas don’t talk about much. We already face enough weird reactions from betas and other alphas, no need to add to it. The phenomenon is considered medically rare, but there’s an under-reporting problem, and I’m proof of it.
The full shift has never felt this close, this easy. And here, now… it would be complete and utter disaster.
So I ignore that aching throb, focusing on the taste of Mylo’s cock, the sound of his sweet moans and whimpers. When his length is down my throat, I can forget about shoving mine in his ass.
All I have to do is rock my hips against my heel, and my swollen clit lights with sensation, sending deep moans rattling through me.
If this is how…productiveMylo is during his pre-heats, then his full heat is going to be something else. I can’t believe I ever thought I could be satisfied with a beta. There’s nothing like this high. I feelalivein a way I haven’t for so long, especially when his fingers slide into my hair, gripping as he trembles.
I work my thumbs on either side of that tight little rim, teasing and stretching, sliding my lengthening tongue along it. His body responds to me, relaxing and giving way.
To know I’d be his first knot, his only?—
I crest a climax, moaning around his cock, earning another gush.
I could stay here, milking him, forever.
When I’m buried between his legs like this, he’smine.
But the clock ticks quietly in the back of my mind.
Two more days.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
MYLO
I can’t stop shakingafter my evening suppressant dose.
The nausea comes in waves, even after I crank the AC as cold as it will go and leave the second-floor balcony slider open to the winter night’s chill.
It’s the last night.
One more day of shooting.
I just need to hang on a little longer.
That endless blue ocean boils.
Reality and dreams melt together as I float on the edge of consciousness, limbs tangled in syrupy, sticky water.
I can’t stay at the surface, can’t keep the hotel room in focus, can’t get out.
My phone makes a strange, distorted noise, and I paw at it, staring at the blurry words. Fuck, this is pointless. But I can hold the button that activates the voice prompt.
“Call… Christine.”
The water rises around me again. I surface when I hear her voice?—
“Mylo? Is that you?”
