3. Burying Head in Sand #2
Wondering if my professional mask slipped drives me insane.
Maybe the scent-blocker failed for a split second, or maybe they just exude that kind of protective energy with everyone they meet.
The thought of them looking at me with that level of raw attraction sends a heavy, curling heat low in my belly.
My nipples harden against my cotton bra, and a slick rush of dampness pools in my underwear.
It frustrates me. I hate how my body responds to the memory of their warmth with such intense hunger, I refuse to be a slave to my own physical needs.
I grab my pile of bedding. I strip the dusty, unfamiliar sheets off the full-sized mattress in the corner and toss them aside. I stretch my clean, soft linens over the mattress and toss my favorite quilt on top.
Next comes washing the day off my skin. I strip off my dirty clothes, leaving them in a pile on the bathroom floor. Stepping into the tiny shower stall, I crank the hot water and let the steam melt away the harsh stench of bleach and mud.
Now clean and exhausted, I crawl under my own covers. But sleep takes hours to set in. Tossing and turning ruins my pristine bed-making job, twisting the sheets into a tangled, sweaty mess as the phantom scent of fig and spices lingers in my nose.
Thick, intoxicating heat blankets the room. The rich scent of fig, warm clove, sharp vetiver, and steeped black tea saturates the air. The aroma sinks straight into my blood. I sink into a huge, plush mattress. The sheets twist around my naked limbs.
Jake hovers over me. His broad chest blocks out the ceiling. He captures my wrists, pressing them into the pillows beside my head. His grip feels firm and grounding. He leans down, his scruff scratching against the sensitive skin of my neck.
“So perfect. Just for us.”
A hot shiver wracks my spine. His mouth replaces the scruff; his lips dragging a wet, open path down to my collarbone. He bites down, a firm pressure that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core. I arch my back, desperate for friction.
Edward’s frame shifts onto the bed on my right side.
The mattress dips under his weight. His rough, calloused hands span my waist. The heat radiating off his skin rivals a furnace.
He drags his palms up my ribcage, his broad thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks of my breasts.
The sensation rips a loud, needy moan from my throat.
“That sounds so good, sweetheart. Keep making those noises for us.”
Edward replaces his hands with his mouth.
He takes a tight, aching nipple between his lips and sucks hard.
The wet, pulling pressure makes my hips jerk off the mattress.
He laps the peak with a broad tongue, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud.
The heavy ache between my thighs intensifies, turning into a slick, throbbing pulse.
Nolan settles near my knees. His dark frames catch the dim bedroom light.
He traces a slow, deliberate line down the center of my stomach with his index finger.
His touch tracks lower, pushing past my hip bones, seeking the slick heat of my core.
He parts my swollen folds with expert skill, exposing my most sensitive nerves to the cool air.
“Look how ready she is. Dripping for us.”
Nolan slips two long fingers inside my wet heat.
He pushes deep. The intrusion stretches me open, hitting the exact right spot.
I gasp, tossing my head back against the pillows.
Nolan pumps his fingers in a steady, relentless rhythm.
He adds his thumb to the mix, circling my engorged clit.
The friction builds a frantic, winding coil low in my gut.
Edward releases my breast. He drags his heavy body down the bed, swapping places with Nolan.
Nolan moves up to my face, his hands tangling in my messy hair. He claims my mouth in a deep, bruising kiss. His tongue sweeps past my teeth, tasting like dark tea and raw desire. I kiss him back with desperate, feral hunger.
Down below, Edward grips my thighs. He pushes my legs wide open, resting them over his broad shoulders.
His hot breath fans over my slick entrance.
He dives in, his broad tongue lapping up my wetness in long strokes.
He focuses on my clit, sucking the sensitive bundle of nerves right into his mouth.
A full-body shudder rips through me. The pleasure borders on agony.
Edward pulls back with a harsh, ragged breath.
He shifts to the side, his rough hands gripping my hips to hold me steady.
Jake takes his place between my spread thighs.
He releases my wrists, leaning his heavy frame forward.
His hard cock presses hot against my slick entrance.
He catches my chin, forcing my gaze up to meet his dark, burning eyes.
“You want it. Beg for it.”
My chest heaves. The overwhelming, undeniable drive to submit takes over my brain. I crave the stretch of a thick Alpha knot locking deep inside my core, tying us together.
“Please. I need it. Please.”
Jake grinds his hips down, the thick head of his cock dragging through my slick wetness, resting right at my opening.
Nolan breaks the kiss to bite down hard on my collarbone.
The coil in my belly winds tighter, pulling into a painful cramp.
My muscles lock. The edge approaches, a huge, earth-shattering release dangling a fraction of an inch out of reach.
I throw my hips up, desperate to take Jake inside.
My eyes snap open.
I stare at the dark ceiling of the apartment, my chest heaving.
My heart pounds a frantic beat against my ribs.
Sweat coats my skin. The clean sheets tangle around my legs in a restrictive knot.
A heavy, throbbing ache pulses between my thighs.
I’m slick and desperate, right on the precipice of a climax.
I reach down, shoving my cotton underwear aside.
I slip two fingers into my wetness. I rub my clit, trying to finish the job.
I work myself fast and hard, chasing the high, my hips bucking against my hand in the dark.
My mind remains a chaotic mess. My body fights the release without the weight of them pinning me down.
I chase the climax for ten agonizing minutes before giving up with an annoyed, breathless groan.
Frustrated and turned on, I drag myself out of bed. I walk into the retro bathroom and turn the shower dial all the way to cold. I step under the freezing spray, letting the icy water shock my system and kill the lingering arousal.
Bright Colorado sunlight streams through the apartment windows. I step out of the shower feeling restless but determined. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and run through my morning routine with rigid discipline.
I pop my daily orange suppressant pill, swallowing the chalky tablet dry.
I grab my glass bottle of synthetic floral and musk perfume.
I spray a heavy dose over my pulse points, my neck, and the collar of my fresh scrubs.
I need the chemical barrier to be impenetrable today.
I pull my dark hair back into a tight, no-nonsense bun, lock my confident mask into place, and head downstairs to open the clinic.
The reality of Mr. Miller’s warning hits me the second I unlock the front glass doors. The clinic landline starts ringing fast.
For the next three hours, I act as a one-woman show. I answer the phone, schedule routine checkups, reorganize the messy filing cabinets, and prep the exam rooms. My first patient of the day is a nervous, older farmer in faded overalls. He carries a battered plastic carrier into Exam Room One.
The farmer sets the box on the stainless steel table with a heavy sigh. “Morning, Doc. Brought the barn terror in.”
I offer a warm, professional smile. “Good morning. Let’s see what we have in here.”
I unlatch the wire door. A huge, scarred tabby cat hisses, pressing his back into the far corner of the plastic box.
The farmer crosses his arms, watching the cat with genuine concern. “He sounds awful. Wheezing all night. Refuses to eat his wet food.”
I keep my voice low and soothing. I reach into the carrier. “Come here, grumpy.”
I grab the cat by the thick scruff of his neck and drag him out onto the cold table. The cat growls, but I keep a firm, confident grip.
“I’ve got you. Nobody will hurt you.”
I press the cold diaphragm of my stethoscope against the cat’s ribs. The congestion rattles loud in my ears. I pull the earpieces out and let them drape around my neck.
“Upper respiratory infection. I’ll get him a steroid shot right now to open those airways, and I’ll send you home with oral antibiotics. You need to mix the pills into his food for ten days.”
The farmer nods. “I can handle that. Thanks, Doc.”
I dispense the medication, give the angry cat his injection, and cash the farmer out at the front desk. I thrive in this element. I’m competent, in control of my environment, and proud of the space I command.
By noon, a lull hits the schedule. I sit behind the reception desk, typing up the morning’s patient notes on the desktop computer. The clinic is quiet. I expect to feel relieved by the peace, but an annoying, persistent restlessness hums beneath my skin.
Without meaning to, I find my eyes drifting away from the monitor.
I look out the front glass windows, my gaze scanning the passing vehicles on the street.
A heavy-duty truck drives by. My heart does a sudden, erratic leap against my ribs before I realize the driver is just a delivery guy, not Edward.
I scowl at my reaction and force my eyes back to the computer screen, frustrated by my lack of control. I’m a professional, independent woman, and I refuse to spend my afternoon hoping a pack of Alphas walks back through my doors.