Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sierra
My nest has never felt this good.
Or this inadequate.
I’m surrounded by pillows and blankets I’ve arranged at least six times in the last hour, trying to find the perfect configuration. Extra soft sheets stolen from the linen closet. My own comforter, the one that smells like home and laundry detergent and me.
But it’s not enough.
My omega knows what’s missing. She knows exactly what would make this nest perfect, and it’s currently on the other side of the house, being very respectful and maintaining boundaries.
Four somethings, to be precise.
I burrow deeper into the pillows and try to ignore the ache that’s building low in my belly. Another wave is coming. I can feel it gathering like a storm.
The shower helped. Sort of. I stood under the cold spray for twenty minutes earlier, trying to cool down the fire under my skin. It worked temporarily. Just long enough for me to stumble back to my nest and collapse into the pillows before the heat came roaring back with a vengeance.
My ‘heat’ bag is sitting at the edge of the nest, half-unpacked. I can see the corner of familiar purple silicone peeking out from between my spare clothes, and I determinedly look away.
Not yet. I’m not there yet.
Even though my body is screaming that I’m absolutely there.
I shift in the nest and immediately regret it. Everything is too sensitive. The slide of fabric against my thighs. The brush of my shirt against my nipples. The slick that’s been steadily pooling between my legs for the past hour.
And God, I can still smell them.
A dark, smoky richness drifting from somewhere in the house.
It’s heavy and aggressive, smelling like something left on the stove too long.
Dax. Probably prowling around, trying to burn off rut energy.
The scent makes my pulse jump, and more slick gushes from my body, my omega practically begging me to go find that alpha and let him do whatever he wants.
I grab one of the pillows and press it over my face, letting out a muffled groan of frustration.
This is fine. I’m totally handling this.
My body chooses that moment to prove me a liar by sending another wave of heat rolling through me. This one is stronger, more insistent. It starts deep in my core and radiates outward until my whole body is flushed and aching.
My thighs clench involuntarily. My hand drifts down before I can stop it, pressing against my lower belly, trying to ease the pressure.
It doesn’t help. Nothing helps except the one thing I’m refusing to acknowledge.
The music Cole set up is still playing. Ambient rain sounds that should be soothing, but just remind me that I’m trapped in here while a literal storm rages outside and four alphas deal with their ruts somewhere beyond my door.
I force myself to breathe through it. In for four counts, hold for four, out for four. The wave eventually passes, leaving me sweaty and shaking but still in control.
Still me.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, counting the texture patterns in the paint. Anything to distract myself from the throbbing ache between my thighs and the way my body keeps producing more slick, preparing for an alpha that isn’t coming.
My gaze drifts to my bag again. To that purple silicone that’s practically calling my name.
I can’t put it off anymore.
My hand is in my bag before I fully register the decision. I pull out the smaller one first. A slim vibrator, nothing too intense. Just something to take the edge off. Just enough to think clearly again.
I shimmy out of my underwear. It’s ruined; soaked through with slick. My shirt goes next because the fabric is torture against my skin. Then I’m naked in my nest, toy in hand, trying to remember how to breathe.
Just to take the edge off, I tell myself. Just enough to survive.
I turn on the vibrator, and even the low buzz makes my pulse spike. I trail it down my body slowly, over my collarbone, between my breasts, across my too-sensitive stomach. By the time I reach where I need it most, I’m already trembling.
The first touch makes me gasp. I bite down on my lip, hyperaware that there are four alphas in this house who can probably smell my arousal even through the walls. I work the toy slowly, trying to be quiet, trying to be quick.
It feels good. The vibrations, the pressure, the way my body responds eagerly to even this small stimulation. My hips rock against my hand, chasing the sensation.
But even as pleasure builds, I can feel it’s not going to be enough. Not really. This will take the immediate edge off, but the heat is already building again underneath, waiting.
I press the vibrator more firmly against myself, biting down on my pillow to muffle the sounds threatening to escape. The pleasure coils tighter, tighter, until finally it crests and I’m coming with my face buried in soft cotton, body shaking with release.
For about thirty seconds, I feel better.
Then the heat comes roaring back, and I realize with sinking clarity that I just wasted my effort.
It’s already worse than before. The brief relief only seemed to make my body more demanding, more insistent. More slick pools between my thighs. My skin feels even more oversensitive, if that’s possible.
I need more. I—
A soft knock at my door short-circuits my brain.
I freeze, the small vibrator still in my hand, my body flushed and aching and definitely not satisfied.
“Sierra?” Jalen’s voice, muffled through the wood. “You okay in there?”
No. Absolutely not. I just tried to take the edge off and somehow made it worse, and my entire body is screaming for alpha attention, and I can smell him through the door! Toasted marshmallows and spiced cider, warm and sweet and comforting in a way that makes my omega purr with need.
Another pulse of slick. My nipples tighten despite the orgasm I just had.
“I’m fine,” I call back, proud of how normal I sound even though I’m literally naked in my nest with a vibrator in my hand and slick coating my thighs. “Just... nesting.”
There’s a pause. I can almost hear him processing that, deciding what to say next. Can hear him breathing on the other side of the door, and that shouldn’t be as arousing as it is.
“Do you need anything?” he finally asks. “Water? Food? We’ve got plenty of supplies.”
The mention of food makes me realize I’m actually hungry. Not heat-hungry, but actually hungry. When was the last time I ate? Breakfast feels like three years ago.
“Actually,” I say, setting down the vibrator and reaching for my discarded shirt. “Ice cream? I brought some.”
“Ice cream?”
“Yeah. There’s Ben, Jerry, Haagen, and Dazs. Haagen is the rocky road one. I have a thing for marshmallows.”
The words are out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to die.
I have a thing for marshmallows? To Jalen? Who smells like toasted marshmallows? While I’m in pre-heat and producing enough slick to flood a small country?
Could I be any more obvious?
I press my hands over my face and wait for the embarrassment to kill me.
“Rocky road,” Jalen repeats, and I can hear the smile in his voice. He knows. He absolutely knows what I just accidentally said. “Coming right up.”
His footsteps retreat down the hallway, and I let out a breath.
Smooth, Sierra. Real smooth.
I pull my shirt back on and seriously consider just staying here until the heat passes and I die of mortification. The two might happen simultaneously at this rate.
Another wave hits, harder this time. My back arches off the pillows. A small sound escapes my throat before I can bite it back. Somewhere between a whimper and a moan.
I clap my hand over my mouth.
Can they hear me? Please God, tell me they can’t hear me.
The house is big. The music is playing. They’re dealing with their own ruts. They definitely can’t hear—
A growl echoes through the house. Low and deep and unmistakably alpha.
My whole body responds as if someone just touched a live wire to my skin. More slick, more heat, more need flooding through me until I’m trembling with it.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck!
The small vibrator isn’t going to cut it. Not even close.
My hand goes back to my bag, digging deeper this time. Past the bottle of lube, past the backup batteries, until my fingers close around familiar purple silicone.
The good one. The one with a proper knot at the base because regular vibrators don’t cut it during a heat. I’ve had it for years, and it’s gotten me through more heats than I can count.
I pull it out and just stare at it for a moment, lying against my palm. It’s substantial, with textures and ridges that mimic the real thing. The knot at the base is perfect, designed to catch and stretch and lock.
But as I look at it now, all I can think about is that it’s not real. It’s not attached to an alpha. It won’t come with the weight of a body pressing me into the mattress or hands gripping my hips or teeth at my throat.
It won’t smell like burned caramel or vanilla ice-cream or toasted marshmallow or cinnamon-glazed pecans.
Another wave crashes through me, and I stop thinking altogether.
I kick off my shirt again and reach for the lube even though I probably don’t need it. I’m producing enough slick to make the toy slide easily, but old habits die hard.
I settle back into my nest, surrounded by pillows, and press the toy against my entrance. Even that gentle pressure makes me gasp. I’m so sensitive, so ready, that it takes barely any effort to work it inside.
The stretch is good. Better than the vibrator. The toy fills me in a way that makes my toes curl, hitting spots that send sparks of pleasure up my spine.
But it’s still not enough.
I work it slowly at first, trying to be quiet, hyperaware that Jalen is somewhere in this house getting ice cream while I’m doing this. The toy’s knot catches at my entrance, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making noise as I push past the resistance.
The stretch is intense. Good. The fullness helps, makes the aching need recede slightly.