16. Nash
sixteen
Nash
The eucalyptus tea cools off at the table. I have nothing else to do but watch it and ignore the moans coming from Indigo’s room.
“Naaaash!”
She always calls out for one of us every time she comes.
I’ve rented the rooms sandwiching hers, afraid someone will complain and ask us to leave.
I’m throwing money at everyone any time I can.
Nothing would be worse than having to move Indigo right now.
I can barely be in the same room as her as it is. I wouldn’t survive a car ride.
The others are just as bad. Hank, that tank of a dude, can barely hold on straight when the scent of her need hits his nose. But who can blame him? An Alpha is made to satisfy his Omega, but we are torturing ours instead.
Mom called me last night, and I was excited to hear her voice.
She’s a Beta, not raised in a township, and had to come to terms with Alphas and knots when my dads told her.
Yet even she thinks this is madness. Unlike my other relatives, she understands why Indigo needs time to accept us.
My mom fell for my fathers. She accepted something she never knew even existed, but she had time to fall for them.
It’s only fair that Indigo has a chance too.
“My only fear is that with the heat coming for her, she won’t be herself. How can she fall in love or even accept the scent-matching when she can’t think straight?”
Her question hit right into my rib cage.
I value my family’s opinions, especially my mom’s.
She sees things differently than us. Her point of view was broadened by her upbringing and decades in the music industry.
It hurts when she puts my fears into words, because this is what I’ve been thinking about.
What if knotting her is the only way to bring her back? And it doesn’t matter how long we give her. She’ll only think straight after a knot. Which means either we back away from our promise—which will never happen—or live forever in this hell until the four of us are insane.
Mom notices that I’m upset and tries to cheer me up. I keep on hoping, but when we hang up, her words are the only thing I can think about. They follow me to sleep and through the next day. They echo inside my head when all I want is to forget and live each day.
My staring contest with the cooling tea is my latest distraction. I watch the nondescript white cup as if it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen when in reality, my mind is with her. On her cries, on her perfume, tangled in those sheets with her.
The breath coming out of me is heavy with lust. My cock presses against the zipper, and I’m so fucking tired of wanting her this bad. Exhaustion and want weigh on me. It doesn’t matter how many times I try to shake myself away from the feeling. It lives with me now.
There’s nowhere to escape. Her perfume is forever on the tip of my tongue as if I’m licking that pretty cunt myself. Every time she touches herself, day or night, I imagine taking over. I create elaborate scenarios to take her. I decide which move would make her cry out.
A ragged breath rips off my chest, and I give up on the tea.
It will cool off when it cools off, and I can add ice then.
I burst into the bathroom and start removing my clothes.
They cling to my skin, scratching as if the material wasn’t soft cotton.
I kick my jeans and underwear off, holding the curses not to spill all over the tiles, and once I’m completely naked, I step into the cold shower.
The water is cold as fuck, but it relaxes my shoulders anyway.
I wonder if this is how she feels every time we give her a cold bath.
At first she was scared, and Hank had to physically place her there, but now she welcomes it.
I bet it’s the only time she can breathe without feeling this tug of want.
I put my head under the spray, hands splayed on the tiles in front of me as I will myself to be the same Nash I was before this scent-match.
There’s no denying I wanted her even before.
I knew she was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on, and that’s why I asked Hank to explain what happened that night in the pool.
A pretty girl and trauma will make a man dive into water.
Even the cold jets can’t calm my cock down, and before I have time to feel ashamed, I grab my cock and stroke it hard. It won’t make it better. I know that much. It doesn’t matter how many times I rub myself. I’m hard the moment I get a whiff of her perfume.
Under the water and with her name on the tip of my tongue, I grip my cock and stroke faster. Flashes of her pretty face contorted in pleasure while he rubs herself off come to mind, and I leak hot precum.
Mouth dry, there’s no stopping now. No shame, I don’t care about anything but the need for completion. I hear her whispering my name, and I’m so crazed in my need for her I’m not sure if I’m hearing things or if it’s actually happening. My cock doesn’t care if I’m hallucinating.
It leaps and begs for her, so I stroke harder.
At the base, I squeeze my knot, moaning by my own hand.
The pleasure builds. It heats my skin and loosens my muscles.
At the peak, I pray over the tiles and get white blindness that makes me sway on my legs.
The euphoria lasts a second, and then I’m left with shame and nothing else.
What’s the point of this? My cock is still hard, my knot throbs at the base, and I can only think about her. The ache is too deep inside, woven with my sense of self. This feeling has been talked about in my family for generations, mostly because doctors and scientists can’t explain it.
The hormonal changes? Yeah. The need for a rut and heat? Yes. But this love that blossoms out of nowhere? This feeling that I’m nothing if not her protector?
This changes a man.
She changed me.