Page 5 of Knot The Nanny We Planned

The water hits my skin like ice, and my cock doesn't soften. Not even a fraction. If anything, the contrast, the freezing water against my overheated skin, makes the ache worse. I brace my hands against the tile wall, head bowed, water streaming over my shoulders, and try to think about something, anything, that isn't Willow.

Board meetings. Acquisition targets. Quarterly earnings.

Her scent.

No.

Lily's laugh. The way she says "uncle" with that lisp.

Willow's voice, soft and shaking. "I'm sorry. I don't know why…"

Stop!

The way her thighs pressed together, trying to hide the wetness. The way her chest heaved. The way her nipples hardened under that cheap blouse…

"Fuck," I snarl against the tile.

My hand wraps around my cock before I can stop myself. The cold water sluices over my knuckles as I grip the shaft, and the first stroke pulls a groan from somewhere deep in my chest. My hips jerk forward into my fist, and I let my head drop, forehead pressing against the wet tile, eyes closed.

I'm not going to be able to stop this. I know it. My body has already decided.

I start to stroke, slow at first. Tight grip, dragging from base to tip, my thumb sweeping over the head where precum is already beading, hot and slick despite the cold water. My knot throbs at the base, swollen and sensitive, and when my grip brushes against it, a jolt of pleasure shoots up my spine so sharp it makes my knees buckle.

I imagine her. Willow, in that room next door, probably lying on that bed right now. Is she touching herself? Does she feel the same ache I do, the hollow, desperate need that can't be ignored? Is her hand slipping between her thighs, fingers sliding through her slick, trying to relieve the pressure that's building and building with no release?

My strokes speed up. My hips fuck into my fist, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing off the shower walls. I picture her, pale skin, pink cheeks, that honey-vanilla scent thick in the air. I picture her spreading her thighs for me, her slick glistening on her inner thighs, her omega instincts overriding every logical thought, begging me to fill her.

"Please," she'd whisper. "Please, Alpha."

A growl rumbles through my chest and my free hand slams against the tile, cracking it but I don't give a single flying fuck.

I imagine pinning her to the bed, her wrists above her head, held in one of my hands. My body covering hers, my cock pressing against her entrance, feeling the wet heat of her, the way she'd arch beneath me, desperate for it. I imagine pushing inside her. Slowly. Feeling her stretch around me, inch by inch, her slick easing the way, her channel gripping me like she was made for me.

Because she was. The match doesn't lie.

I imagine her moaning my name. Not "sir." Not "Mr. Blaine." JD. Breathless and broken and beautiful. I imagine the way her pussy would clench around me when she comes, the way her slick would flood my cock, the way her body would pull me deeper, demanding my knot.

And my knot, God, my knot. I imagine forcing it inside her. The tight ring of her entrance resisting for just a moment before giving way, swallowing the thick base of my cock as she screams. The way it would lock us together, tied, bound, her inner walls spasming around me while I pump her full of cum. Hour after hour. Rope after rope. Filling her until her belly swells with it. Until she's so full it leaks out around the seal of my knot.

"Take it," I'd growl in her ear. "Take all of it. You're mine. Ours. Every drop."

My hand moves faster. Harder. My fist squeezes around my shaft, and my hips piston forward, chasing the image, the fantasy, the need. Water runs down my face, into my open mouth, and I'm panting, gasping, like I'm dying.

Because I am. I'm dying for her. For an omega I met less than twenty minutes ago.

The orgasm hits me like a freight train. My knot swells in my fist, harder, thicker, pulsing, and I roar. The sound that tears out of me isn't human. It's pure Alpha, raw and primal, echoing off the bathroom walls loud enough that the whole penthouse probably heard it. Cum erupts from my cock in thick, white ropes, splattering against the tile wall, washing away in the cold water.

But my knot doesn't go down.

That's the thing about a true scent-match. A single orgasm doesn't satisfy the knot. It demands more. It demands her. The biological imperative is clear - find the omega, mount the omega, knot the omega, breed the omega. Until that happens, the knot will stay swollen, aching, and unsatisfied.

I keep stroking. Slower now, my grip tightening around the swollen base, riding the aftershocks. My cum coats my hand, milky white against my skin, and I watch it wash away down the drain.

It's not enough, but I already knew it wouldn't be.

I lean against the shower wall, chest heaving, water pouring over me, and close my eyes. Her scent is still in my nose, in my blood, in my bones. It's going to be there all night, haunting me, torturing me, reminding me that the cure for this ache is lying in a bed twenty feet away, probably just as sleepless, just as desperate.

I could go to her.