5. Caroline #2
I press my forehead to the cabinet just to feel something that isn’t heat. When I push myself upright, my palms slip a little. My skin is damp, but not from water. It feels like my body is begging, like every nerve is reaching for something.
My phone buzzes across the room. The sound rattles through me. I crawl again, partly because standing is too much and partly because the floor feels good, cooling me just enough to think.
I grab my phone and blink at the screen.
No calls from Amara. Great. She must still be asleep. Surges hit her harder than anyone I know. She always needs half a day just to return to herself.
But there are missed calls from June.
Panic slices through the haze.
Work. I forgot work.
I dial her back with clumsy fingers. She picks up fast.
“Caroline. Thank goodness.”
I apologize, stumbling over the words, telling her I overslept, I got thrown off after last night, that I’m sorry for leaving her alone.
“No worries,” she answers, and I picture her in the shop adjusting August’s herb shelves by herself. “It’s slow. No one’s out. The new apprentice was hit hard by the surge too. Everyone’s laying low. Just take the day. Are you really okay?”
I say yes even though I’m absolutely not okay.
She wishes me well and hangs up.
I send a quick message to my mother, asking if she’s all right, and then I collapse onto the sofa with a sigh that sounds like it comes from somewhere deep and desperate.
Then an electric jolt moves through me.
I choke on a startled sound.
My hand flies to my chest and I curl inward. The sensation ripples down my ribs, down my stomach, lower, and I hate how good it feels. Heat coils like a fist. My pulse hammers against my palms.
This is a heat.
There’s no mistaking it.
But why now?
I try to breathe through it. I tell myself it’ll pass, that my suppressants are in my system.
I try to focus on something else. Anything else.
But all I can think about is the tight ache building inside me and the slick warmth settling between my thighs.
The cushion under me feels too soft, too inviting.
I press my legs together and the pressure nearly knocks me out of my own body. A whimper catches in my throat. I swallow it down and grip the sofa harder, nails digging into the worn fabric.
“This will pass,” I whisper. “This will pass.”
My voice cracks. I don’t believe myself.
Another pulse hits.
I gasp, hips lifting without permission.
Thistle jumps onto the coffee table and stares at me like I’m concerning him more than usual. I wave a hand at him, but my palm trembles. My whole body trembles.
Then my hand drifts downward. I don’t even realize I’m doing it at first.
It slides past my ribs, down my stomach, into the waistband of my sleep shorts.
My fingers brush against my wetness, and the contact sends a fresh wave of fire through my core. I freeze, breath hitching in my chest, as if acknowledging what I’m doing will make it all too real. But the ache pulses insistently, demanding attention, and I can’t ignore it anymore.
I hook my thumb into the elastic of my shorts, shoving them down my thighs in one frantic motion. The cool air hits my exposed skin, but it does nothing to quench the burning need building inside me.
I spread my legs wider, the cushion beneath me shifting slightly under my weight. My hand returns to where I need it most, fingers sliding through the slickness that’s already gathered between my folds.
I’m so wet, so ready, that they glide easily, parting my lips with a soft, obscene sound.
A low moan escapes my lips as I circle my clit, the swollen nub throbbing under my touch. Each stroke builds the pressure, coiling tighter in my belly, and I arch my back off the sofa, chasing the sensation.
Thistle meows from the coffee table, his eyes wide and unblinking, but I barely register him.
My world narrows to the heat radiating from my pussy, the way my inner walls clench around nothing, begging to be filled.
I dip two fingers inside myself, gasping at how easily they sink in, coated in my arousal.
I pump them slowly at first, feeling the stretch, the way my body grips them greedily.
But slow isn’t enough. I need more, faster, harder.
My hips buck up to meet my hand, the rhythm turning urgent as I fuck myself with my fingers.
Sweat beads on my forehead, trickling down my temple, and I swipe it away with my free hand. My breasts feel heavy, nipples peaking against the thin fabric of my T-shirt, aching for friction.
I pinch one through the cloth, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger, and the dual sensations make stars burst behind my eyelids. “Oh god,” I breathe out. The coil in my core winds tighter, every thrust of my fingers pushing me closer to the edge.
I add a third finger, stretching myself further, imagining it’s something thicker, something that could truly satisfy this insatiable hunger.
My thumb finds my clit again, rubbing in firm circles that make my thighs quiver. The sounds of my fingers moving in and out fill the room, mingling with my panting breaths and the occasional whimper.
My pussy flutters around my digits, the pressure building to an unbearable peak. I curl my fingers inside, brushing that sensitive spot deep within, and it rips a cry from my throat.
The orgasm crashes over me, my body seizing as waves of pleasure ripple through every nerve.
My walls clamp down on my fingers, pulsing rhythmically, and hot slick gushes out, soaking my hand and the cushion beneath me.
I ride it out, hips grinding against my palm, drawing out every last shudder until I’m left trembling and gasping for air.
My chest heaves, and I pull my fingers free with a wet pop, staring at them glistening in the dim light of the living room.
But the relief is fleeting. Almost immediately, the ache returns, sharper than before, a hollow emptiness that makes my skin crawl with need. I whine in frustration, wiping my hand on my thigh before reaching down again.
My clit is still throbbing, hypersensitive, but I can’t stop.
I need to come again, to fill that void gnawing at me from the inside.
This time, I strip off my T-shirt, the fabric clinging to my sweat-dampened skin before I toss it aside.
My breasts spill free, nipples hard and begging for attention.
I cup one breast, squeezing it roughly while my other hand dives back between my legs. My fingers plunge into my soaked pussy without hesitation, the intrusion welcome and yet not nearly enough.
I fuck myself harder, the sofa creaking under my movements as I thrust up to meet each stroke. My thumb presses down on my clit. Heat floods my veins, my body temperature spiking as the Omega instincts take over, demanding release after release.
Memories flicker unbidden through my mind, fragments of fantasies I’ve suppressed for years. Strong hands pinning me down, a thick cock stretching me wide, knotting deep inside to lock us together. I moan at the thought, my pace faltering for a second before I redouble my efforts.
My free hand tweaks my nipple, pulling and twisting until it borders on pain, the sting blending with the pleasure in a way that makes my toes curl.
The second climax builds faster, my body already primed and desperate.
I spread my legs as wide as the sofa allows, one foot digging into the armrest for leverage.
My fingers curl inside me, hitting that spot over and over, while my palm slaps lightly against my mound with each thrust. Slick drips down my ass, pooling on the cushion, and the scent of my arousal hangs heavy in the air, musky and intoxicating even to me.
“Please,” I gasp to the empty room, not sure what I’m begging for. More? Relief? It doesn’t matter. The orgasm hits me hard, my back bowing off the cushions as my pussy spasms around my fingers.
I cry out, the sound raw and animalistic, my entire body shaking with the force of it. Juices squirt out around my hand, wetting my thighs and the sofa further, but I don’t care. I keep moving, milking every pulse until I’m spent, collapsing back with a sob.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, born of frustration and overwhelming sensation.
My hand falls away, but the heat doesn’t fade. If anything, it’s worse now, a ravenous beast clawing at my insides.
I roll onto my side, curling into the damp cushion, but the position only presses my thighs together, reigniting the fire.
With a groan, I push myself up, straddling the arm of the sofa for a different angle. The fabric rubs against my sensitive clit as I position myself, and I grind down instinctively, seeking friction.
My hands brace on the back of the sofa, and I rock my hips, sliding my pussy along the edge.
It’s rough, not ideal, but the pressure is divine, sending sparks up my spine.
I reach back, fingers finding my entrance again, and I push them in deep while continuing to hump the armrest. The stimulation makes my head spin, my breaths coming in short, desperate bursts.
Thistle has long since fled the room, probably sensing the intensity of my distress, but I’m beyond caring. All that exists is the slick heat between my legs, the way my body betrays me with every needy twitch.
I imagine an Alpha’s mouth on me, tongue lapping at my folds, teeth grazing my clit. The fantasy fuels me, my movements growing erratic as I chase the third release.
I slip one hand up to my throat, pressing lightly, feeling my pulse thunder under my fingers.
The slight restriction heightens everything, making the pleasure more intense.
My pussy clenches around my invading fingers, the walls fluttering as I near the brink.
I grind harder against the sofa arm, the friction building a delicious burn on my clit.