3. Olive
Idrag my feet down the carpeted hallway of my apartment building. My hand shakes as I dig my keys out of my tote bag, wincing at the loud rattle. Sliding the key into the deadbolt, I shove the front door open.
Stumbling inside, I slam the door and turn the lock. I rest my head against the cool painted wood.
My apartment serves as a curated sanctuary. The walls feature a calming beige paint. The furniture boasts clean, minimalist lines. Zero clutter exists anywhere. Everything has a specific place, purpose, and order. I built this life to be predictable and safe.
Right now, I feel out of control.
I drop my tote by the console table. Kicking my sneakers off, I leave them in the middle of the entryway rug. Lacking the willpower to put them in the closet proves how shitty I feel. Leaving things out of place isn't my style.
Sweat drips down my spine. The air conditioning unit kicks on, blasting cold air into the living room. The thermostat sits at a comfortable sixty-eight degrees, but I feel like I'm roasting from the inside out. My sleek, dark bob clings to my sweaty neck in damp, messy strands.
Surviving the last two hours of my shift took a miracle. The second that wave of heat hit me in Sam's room, my system short-circuited. Convincing Brenda about a fake stomach bug got me out the door. Calling out early isn't my style.
But standing here in my living room, the truth sinks in. I feel terrible.
The apartment always offers a quiet retreat from the chaotic energy of the children's ward.
Today, the sensory overload pushes me to the edge.
Noise echoes inside my skull. The hum of the refrigerator sounds like a roaring generator.
The ticking kitchen clock grates against my nerves.
Muted sounds of city traffic travel straight up my legs.
Pacing toward the kitchen, the fabric of my navy cotton send jolts of strange awareness down to my center. The friction borders on pain. The seam of my pants rubs my inner thighs. My breath hitches in my throat.
Stopping in the middle of the room, I squeeze my eyes shut.
The phantom scent from the hospital follows me home. Standing alone in my apartment, I smell them. The memory of the pack's custom cologne washing over me feels fresh. Crisp citrus mixed with cedar, black pepper, and thunderstorms overpowers the lingering hospital bleach.
My mouth waters. A desperate whine builds in the back of my throat, forcing me to swallow it down.
Rubbing my temples, I blame the fever. Fevers mess with your senses and cause hallucinations. Smelling a millionaire hockey player's cologne in an empty kitchen proves my brain is cooking.
Ripping my scrub top over my head, the damp fabric lands on the white quartz island. I pop the button on my scrub pants and kick them off. Peeling the socks off my damp feet leaves everything in a disorganized heap.
Clad in sensible cotton underwear and a matching sports bra, I open the medicine cabinet.
Grabbing a bottle of ibuprofen, my trembling fingers drop the plastic cap.
It bounces across the counter and rolls onto the hardwood floor.
Shaking two pills into my sweaty palm, I toss them to the back of my throat and drink from the kitchen faucet.
Leaning over the stainless steel sink, I grip the edges of the counter. The cold metal feels good against my burning palms.
Resentment burns through me. I hate feeling weak and sick. My independent life relies on my body functioning on command. I depend on boring, balanced Beta hormones to keep me grounded. Refusing to take days off keeps me in control.
A flush stains my cheeks red. Ragged breaths tear from my chest. The throbbing in my head matches a strange, persistent pulse low in my pelvis. My thighs ache. The skin on my arms prickles under the cold air blowing from the ceiling vent.
Pushing away from the counter, I give up on the medicine. I need a cold shower. Freezing this bizarre fever out of my system is the only option before it drives me insane.
Every step into the bathroom takes a monumental effort. The white subway tile and spotless glass shower doors offer zero calm today. The sterile environment mirrors the hospital and brings back the very moment everything went wrong.
I reach into the shower stall and twist the silver dial to the coldest setting. Water blasts from the showerhead and hits the drain with an echoing splatter.
I strip out of my cotton underwear and sports bra. A deep breath fills my lungs before I step into the freezing spray. Icy water hits my shoulders, promising relief. The cold should shock my system and drop my core temperature back to normal.
Instead, a jolt of electricity rips through my body.
A gasp tears from my throat as I brace my hands against the wet tiles. The freezing water hits my raw skin and turns into liquid fire. All my nerve endings scream as droplets strike my nipples, peppering them into tight, aching points. A desperate ache shoots straight down to the apex of my thighs.
I grab my loofah and a bottle of unscented body wash. Squirting soap onto the sponge, I scrub at my skin. Washing the sweat off becomes a mission because the lingering smell of the city and the hospital needs to vanish.
Friction from the rough sponge against my arms and chest overwhelms me. A ragged moan rips from my lips. I drop the loofah, and it lands on the floor with a wet thud.
I wrap my arms around my torso and sink against the tiled wall. Cold water cascades over my hair and down my back, but the heat inside me ignores the chill and grows stronger. My hips roll forward on instinct. I chase the friction of the water running between my legs.
Panic slices through the fog in my brain. I slap my hand over the silver dial and shove it upward to cut the water off.
Sudden silence in the bathroom rings in my ears.
My legs tremble as I step out of the stall. Leaning against the vanity keeps me upright. I grab a fluffy white towel from the rack.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My chest heaves with ragged breaths. My lips look swollen and bitten red.
I run the towel down to dry my legs, but the terrycloth fabric brushes against my center. I freeze in place. The towel slips from my grip. Trembling fingers reach down to touch myself.
My fingertips come away soaked in a thick, clear slickness.
A wave of horror crashes into me. I stare at my shiny fingers, my jaw dropping open. I swallow hard to push down the rising bile.
Viruses don't make you wet. Stomach bugs don't cause a deep, throbbing emptiness to open up inside your pelvis. Fevers don't make your nipples ache with the desperate need for teeth.
I'm not sick. I'm burning with an intense, unexplainable arousal, that only happens to…
"No." I push the word into the empty bathroom. "No. I'm a Beta. This doesn't happen to Betas."
Wiping my hand on the towel, I back away from the mirror. My breathing turns frantic. Clutching the edges of the vanity does nothing to steady me. Balanced, boring hormones never pull stunts like this. Sudden arousal without a reason makes no sense.
Then, the phantom scent hits me.
Standing in my unscented bathroom, the smell returns. The crispness of citrus mixes with the rich depth of cedar, the bite of black pepper, and the ozone note of a thunderstorm. Malcolm, Lawrence, and Finn.
My mind conjures their faces with terrifying focus. I see Malcolm's dark braid and intense stare, and Lawrence's broad chest and easy smile. The sheer size of Finn takes over my thoughts. The width of their shoulders and their massive hands fill my head.
A fresh wave of slick floods my bare thighs.
My body screams for large hands to pin me down. It begs for the weight of a chest pressing me into a mattress.
I reject this. The idea that smelling a team cologne can reduce me to a trembling, dripping mess breaks every rule I live by. I built my life on independence. Relying on nobody is my motto.
The throbbing between my legs ignores my rational thoughts. The ache intensifies from a dull throb into a biting demand. It pulses with every beat of my heart. I need relief. Making the agonizing pressure stop is the only way to save my sanity.
Abandoning the damp towel on the bathroom floor, I stumble into my bedroom. A trail of wet footprints follows me across the hardwood.
Falling face-first onto my crisp bed. The agonizing ache between my legs consumes my reality.
Rolling onto my back, my legs kick apart. Cool bedroom air hits my soaked center and sends a shiver down to my toes.
Reaching toward my nightstand, my fingers fumble with the top drawer. I yank it open and grab the sleek green silicone vibrator stashed next to my phone charger. Pulling this toy out happens maybe once a month. I treat it like a practical tool for stress relief.
Today, I grip it like a lifeline. Pressing the power button sends a buzz of steady vibration into my palm.
Spreading my thighs wider, my fingers part my swollen folds. The sheer volume of wetness coating my pussy shocks me. I smear the slick around to coat my clit before pressing the vibrating silicone directly against it.
A loud, messy moan escapes my lips. Arching my back off the mattress, the vibration hits my clit and sends a jolt of raw pleasure straight to my brain.
The relaxed, lazy rhythm of my usual solo sessions vanishes. Chasing fantasies of romance isn't the goal. This feels frantic. A desperate need to just get off and scratch an itch that burns down to the bone drives my every movement.
Grinding my hips upward mashes my clit against the toy. My free hand flies up to my chest. Pinching my aching nipples and twisting the tight buds mixes the pain with the pleasure.
Deep, ragged gasps replace my breathing. The walls of my bedroom blur. Squeezing my eyes shut forces my focus onto the friction and the buzzing motor. But my traitorous brain refuses to stay empty.
The phantom smell of a thunderstorm rolls over me. Finn’s face flashes behind my closed eyelids. Picturing his calloused hands replacing the silicone toy sends a jolt through my hips. I imagine those thick fingers spreading my wet pussy open and rubbing my clit until I scream.
Malcolm's dark eyes watch me in the fantasy while he strokes his thick cock.
Lawrence's broad chest presses me flat against the sheets.
Then, Victor's carved jawline and icy eyes invade my mind.
The memory of his arrogant face should repulse me, but an unexplainable tug in my gut drags him right into the tangled mess of my desires.
The fantasy throws gasoline on the fire. Tension coiling in my stomach snaps tight. My hips buck against my hand.
"Alphas!" I gasp the word into the empty room.
The confession shocks my system as the climax hits with the force of a freight train.
It crashes over my senses and blinds me with white-hot pleasure.
My inner thigh muscles spasm. My dripping pussy clenches and contracts around empty air.
I cry out and dig my heels into the mattress as wave after wave of intense release wracks my trembling body.
Riding the high lasts until the muscle spasms slow. The dropped toy lands on the ruined duvet with a quiet thud. Lying spread-eagle on my bed, I stare at the ceiling fan. Sweat coats my chest and stomach. My lungs heave to drag desperate gulps of air into my chest.
For sixty glorious seconds, my body feels light. The terrible pressure vanishes to clear my mind. A long, shaky exhale leaves my lips. Fixing the problem myself worked, just like it always does.
Then, the relief shatters. The throb returns.
It hits me without warning, biting into my raw flesh with twice the intensity.
An echoing, desperate emptiness opens up deep inside my pelvis.
My body clenches and screams for a real cock.
It demands an actual knot to stretch my pussy and fill the space.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. The ache feels agonizing, way worse than the initial fever. Curling onto my side, I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around my shins. A tight ball forms in the middle of my huge, empty bed.
Slick continues to drip down my thighs, making a sticky mess of the sheets.
The phantom scent of crisp citrus and thunderstorms refuses to fade.
A sob breaks past my lips. Burying my face in the pillows offers zero comfort.
I built an entire life on being practical, organized, and independent. I never needed anyone. I'm a Beta.
Now, trembling in a puddle of arousal terrifies me. Whatever sick fever hijacked my system just stripped away every ounce of my control.