13. Cole
Chapter thirteen
Cole
The ancient stairs of this apartment building groan under my boots like a grumpy old man as I finally make it up to the third floor, my muscles aching after fourteen hours of festival duty.
You’d think a baking festival would be low on the hazard scale, but no.
It’s a minefield of overloaded extension cords that look like they were chewed on by squirrels, deep fryers placed with a flagrant disregard for personal space, and enough flammable bunting to set the entire county ablaze.
My team and I have been playing whack-a-mole with potential fire code violations all day.
I pause on the landing, fumbling for my keys to apartment 3B, and notice a sliver of light still glowing from under the door of 3A.
My neighbor. Still up. I've been meaning to introduce myself ever since I moved into this AirBnB three days ago—right after fleeing my mom’s place in search of a room with a lock.
But between festival setup and festival emergencies, meeting the neighbor has fallen somewhere between eventually and possibly never.
My apartment greets me with the thrilling ambiance of a sparsely furnished monk’s cell.
Bare walls, a couch that’s seen better decades, and a bed.
Luxury. But no point getting attached to decor when I’m shipping out as soon as this festival packs up its last sugar donut.
Back to the city, back to the grind, and hopefully, back to the promotion I’ve been chasing for the last five years.
I unceremoniously drop onto the couch with a sigh that could inflate a bounce house, not even bothering with the lights.
The moonlight filtering through the single dusty window is more than enough to illuminate the thrilling landscape of my temporary bachelor pad.
The quiet of the room is almost absolute, broken only by the occasional car passing on the street below.
I close my eyes, just for a second, intending to mentally review tomorrow’s safety briefing schedule. Instead, an image of Elena pops into my head, uninvited but surprisingly vivid.
Damn it. She’s… dangerously gorgeous. Not in that obvious, look-at-me kind of way that usually graces the covers of magazines, but something quieter, more genuine. An understated beauty that kind of sneaks up on you and then refuses to leave.
I really shouldn’t have spent half the day subtly tracking her movements around the festival grounds.
Noticing how a few rogue strands slipped free from her bun to frame her face.
Memorizing the little furrow that appeared between her brows when she was lost on whatever culinary magic she was performing.
Or the way her green eyes lit up when she laughed.
But I did. And now, hours later, in the dubious privacy of my temporary rental, I can still almost recall that faint, intriguing scent I caught when I was near her in the first aid tent.
Sweet, warm, and utterly out of place for a beta.
Like a fragrant fruit. It wasn’t strong, not like an omega in heat, but it was…
distinct. Enough to make the back of my alpha teeth ache just a little. Weird.
I mentally shake myself. Get a grip, Mercer.
This is exactly the kind of distraction I don’t need.
Attachments, even fleeting ones, are a liability in my line of work.
I’ve seen good men, good firefighters, try to juggle the demands of the job with a personal life.
It rarely ends well. Missed anniversaries, forgotten school plays, the constant, gnawing anxiety in their partners’ eyes every time the alarm bells rang.
The job always demands its pound of flesh.
And I chose this path a long time ago. No room for… complications.
Just as I’m about to drift into an exhausted doze, a sound from next door jerks me back to full alertness. It’s soft at first, a little sigh, then more distinct. A moan. Unmistakably feminine. Unmistakably… intimate.
My body reacts before my brain even has a chance to process the input.
Blood, which mere moments ago was peacefully considering a nap across my extremities, stages a sudden rush south.
I bolt upright on the couch, every sense on high alert, suddenly very, very aware of just how paper-thin the walls in this building must be.
Another moan. Slightly louder this time, a little more breathy. The sound slides down my spine like warm, illicit honey, pooling low in my gut with an insistent throb. My uniform pants, already a bit snug after a day of festival food samples, suddenly feel three sizes too small.
Before I can engage any form of rational thought or gentlemanly behavior, I’m on my feet.
And then, to my own internal horror, I’m at the wall.
The shared wall. My ear pressed against the cool, cheap plaster, straining like some kind of low-budget spy to hear more.
My body, meanwhile, is having an absolute field day, reacting to the muffled sounds with an intensity that is both startling and mortifying.
The hardening in my pants is powerful, and frankly a little insulting given my usual iron-clad control.
My hand, now seemingly operating under its own rogue command system, moves of its own accord.
Palm pressing against the insistent bulge, then beginning to rub, slow and tentative at first, through the rough fabric of my pants.
The friction, combined with the increasingly urgent symphony of pleasure from next door, sends jolts of new heat up my spine.
I squeeze my eyes shut, lost in the surprisingly potent rhythm of her sounds and my own increasingly desperate movements.
This isn’t me. This is not Lieutenant Cole Mercer, dedicated public servant, paragon of discipline.
I don’t do this. I don’t eavesdrop on strangers.
I don’t… respond to anonymous moans like a teenager with his first Playboy magazine.
I am controlled. I am professional. Yet here I am, a slave to a soundwave, my composure melting faster than a vinyl chair in a house fire.
Her moans are growing more frequent now, more breathless, more urgent, and each one is a direct command to my own body.
My breathing quickens, unintentionally trying to match the rhythm from next door.
The hand against my pants moves faster, harder, chasing a release that feels both inevitable and deeply shameful.
Stop this. You need to stop this, Cole. But her sounds…
they’re intoxicating, a siren song luring my primal alpha instincts out of the deep, dark cave where I usually keep them locked away.
A particularly sharp, almost broken gasp from 3A makes my hips buck involuntarily against my hand, smacking it on the wall with a sharp thud .
I bite down hard on my lip to keep my own groan from escaping, my free hand bracing against the wall as if I could somehow absorb the vibrations of this… auditory torment.
Then, just as abruptly as it began, the moaning from next door stops. Cut off. For a split second, my own body continues its frantic rhythm, and then, with a final, shuddering release, it’s over for me.
What. The. Hell. Was. I. Doing?
I stumble back from the wall like it’s suddenly white-hot as the moans next door resume, my hand falling away from my body, a sticky warmth blooming on my pants. Shame, potent and suffocating, washes over me in hot, relentless waves.
This isn’t who I am. I don’t lose control like this. I’m not some… some rutting animal, driven solely by instinct and the proximity of a female in pleasure.
And yet… that’s exactly what just happened. God, her disembodied moans are like a spark and I'm dry tinder. In fifteen years of fighting actual, literal fires, I’ve never felt so utterly out of control.
I draw a long, unsteady breath, fighting to slow my racing pulse and gather the fragile remains of my self-respect…
Right. Introducing myself to my neighbor. On second thought… Mayyybe it’s better if I just… don’t. Ever.