Chapter 5
JAMIE
The event hall looks more like a concert venue than a corporate building. There are speakers and lights mounted from the ceiling, and TVs hang every twenty feet to broadcast the feed from the cameras pointed at the stage.
I opted for a matte black sweater with a cowl neck and wide sleeves—the closest my wardrobe gets to formal—and I worry it’s too casual.
Most of the women are in dresses, the men in suit coats over slacks.
Something a notch above business casual.
I kind of wish I could wear a dress without drawing attention, or at least, like, a robe.
Something flowy and loose. But oversized sweaters will have to do.
Lily has abandoned me. I don’t blame her. She ran into some friends from college, and I assured her that I was fine, then sought out a dark corner from which to watch the speech, picking up a glass of champagne along the way.
The food really is amazing. I snag another miniature beef Wellington bite. I’m glad I came—things have been pretty chill so far, and I get the sense that the party won’t really pick up until after the speech, at which point I’ll be long gone.
Claire York, whose name I only remember because it’s helpfully overlaid on the bottom of the camera feed, is up on stage welcoming everyone. She’s energetic and charismatic. I wonder if Artemis put something in the water here, or if they’re just that good at hiring extroverts.
Claire’s getting the crowd hyped for the CEO to come out, and I’m kind of distracted, glancing around to see if there are any waiters with the mini key lime pies.
A husky, feminine voice overtakes my senses, and I freeze.
“Thank you, Claire.”
I hear it before I smell it: the alpha command laced through those words. The Artemis Pharmaceuticals CEO is an alpha. A female alpha.
I don’t know why it surprises me—it makes sense.
But I know why my heart races.
Fear.
As soon as I see her, the fear morphs. I’m not sure into what. She’s gorgeous, incredible. Must be well over six feet tall, and as broad as any other alpha.
She doesn’t skip leg day. Her thighs and ass are layered with muscle that not even the sharp cut of her wide-legged suit pants can hide.
The matching coat hangs open, sculpted to her broad shoulders and muscular arms, nipping in at her waist.
Underneath, she wears a bandeau across her full breasts and a black mesh shirt over that, leaving her rippling abs on tasteful display.
Her hair is black, wavy, long. The spotlights pull out a purple sheen. Blunt bangs frame her beautiful, angular face. Her eyes are brilliant, electric violet.
My gaze traces the ripple of her muscles as she strides across the stage with all the languid grace of a predator. She owns that stage, owns this room.
I can imagine that somebody has tried to tell her, at some point, that CEOs don’t show off their abs.
And I know that the second anyone tried to say something like that, her claws would be at their throat—even unshifted, her nails are long and filed to wicked points, reinforced by a blush pink manicure.
I’m not really understanding her words, but I’m feeling them, feeling the room respond to them. Her breath catches—she’s getting misty-eyed. Something in me whines to run to her, to comfort her. Not with protective presumption but with subservient devotion.
I need to ground myself, to break this spell. I drag my eyes down from the image of her on the closest TV, focus my eyes on the words.
Morgan Hunter.
I’m an idiot. In all my time following Artemis Pharmaceuticals, I had been focused on their papers and their careers page, nothing more. I’d thought Morgan Hunter was a man. I’m sure countless other people have, too.
And not only is she a woman, she is hot. My cheeks flush with heat. I’m not usually attracted to people like this. I’m bisexual, and I’d say I appreciate both male and female forms in an aesthetic sense, but this is different.
The crowd roars, and their warmth fills the room. I regret wearing a sweater. I want to step into the hall, cool off.
But I can’t take my eyes off her.
Her scent reaches me. Leather and whiskey and cedar. My eyes snap to the stage on primal instinct.
She’s staring right at me with those brilliant violet eyes.
I freeze.
She pauses.
A scattered clap ignites another wave of applause through the room.
Sweat gathers on my skin, soaking through my undershirt. Fuck, this place is so space-aged, don’t they have AC?
My idiot brain finally puts two and two together.
I forgot to take my meds today—new habits are hard to build.
And tomorrow is exactly four weeks from my last heat, making it the worst possible time to forget my meds.
The realization zips right to my cock.
The primal part of my brain screaming run, run, run finally makes its way to my motor cortex and I turn and dash from the room, apologizing profusely as I nearly knock a waiter over.
My blood boils. It’s unbearable. I’m not going to make it home.
But then I see my refuge, my island in this storm: the single-stall gender-neutral bathroom, clearly marked by another orientation sign. I dash inside, locking the door behind me.
Corporate DI&B is good for one thing, I guess.
I rip off my sweater and my undershirt. The bathroom feels like a sauna. I run cold water and splash it across my face.
I don’t dare unbutton my pants. I don’t know what’ll happen if I do. My cock throbs needily, my ass aches.
Fuck, fuck.
It usually takes me hours to get to this point. It’s been minutes.
Her alpha scent must have triggered my heat, even though it was faint, suppressed. Mine should have been suppressed too. It wasn’t. I’m a fucking idiot.
Once a heat has started, suppressants can reduce the severity, but they can’t stop it. The only option is to let it run its course.
I consider calling Mom. And saying what? I’ve locked myself in the bathroom and I’m horny out of my mind, sweating through my clothes? No. Absolutely not. I need to deal with this myself.
I can stay here for a while. Wait until everyone else goes home.
But that might take ages. The locked bathroom might be suspicious.
No, I need to get out, get home as fast as possible.
The heat is only going to get worse with every second that passes.
I’m lucky tomorrow is the weekend—I won’t have to call out sick my second week of work.
Fuck, my cock is throbbing. Dripping. Aching to escape my jeans. The thought of putting my shirt back on makes my skin itch, and the sweater would be complete torture. But I can’t exactly walk out of here topless.
I need to let off some steam, release some pressure. My fingers brush my cock through the fabric.
No. That’s a bad, bad, bad idea. It’ll only make things ten times worse.
I can’t think straight. I close my eyes, but all I can see is her rippling abs, leather and whiskey still clinging to my nose, the command in her voice still tingling on my skin.
Wait, that’s it. I can’t be the only omega who’s gotten myself into trouble like this. I bury my face in the icy water from the tap, rake it over my skin, and muster my focus. This time, I actually read the tags when I scroll through the jerk-off-instruction videos.
Fuck, just the tags are turning me on. This was a terrible idea.
But there—public arousal, exhibition, edging. My earbuds are in my pocket for the train ride home, to drown out the subway’s hideous squealing. I cram them in my ears and start the video.
“Keep your fucking clothes on, you bitch,” the alpha snarls. My spine straightens in response. “I don’t care how hot you are, I didn’t ask.”
I hastily yank my sweat-drenched shirt back over my head, the fabric sticky and uncooperative. My sweater goes on easier, but already I’m burning up. At least it covers the bulge in my jeans.
“I want you to wring the sweat out of those clothes for me. Later. So get them nice and drenched for me.”
Calm washes over me. Anything for an alpha. Anything.
“Take a deep breath with me. In… and out… good. Fuck, you’re going to soak those panties for me. I can’t wait to smell them later.”
It’s for a female omega, of course. But I’m beyond caring. And he’s not wrong. Male omegas ooze plenty of pre-cum. What we’re supposed to be lubricating, I have no idea, but it’s probably vestigial. Like male omegas ourselves.
“You can look normal for me, can’t you, omega? Your heat is for me alone…”
It’s working. I’m winding up like a trebuchet, something going taut through my spine, but I’m calm for now. I text Lily, I think I’m coming down with something, left early. Sorry to bail. See you Monday!
Her reply is almost immediate. Oh no, get well soon! Sorry I got so distracted!
Normally I’d send a long reassuring message. I’m too far gone for that, so I slip the phone back in my pocket, take another deep breath, and push out into the hallway.
The movement shifts my jeans over my cock, forcing me to suppress a whimper. But my oversized sweater easily hides the throbbing bulge, so at least there’s that.
I’m in a trance as I scan my train pass, wait on the platform, and stand inside the rumbling tube of the subway car. The video suddenly escalates, hitting the release portion. I hide my sudden groan with a cough, quickly skipping the video back to the beginning. Almost there. I’m almost there.
I climb the stairs at my station, cock pinching with every step. I keep my focus on the alpha’s words.
As I emerge from the station, I don’t recognize the block now that it’s dark.
Wait, did I come out the east entrance or the west one?
It takes all my focus to pull up the map on my phone and punch in my address.
I stare at the screen as it guides me to my front door, then I fumble out the key and let myself in.
A neighbor in the hall nods at me. I wince. Nod back. I’m lucky they don’t want to make friends any more than I do. I dive into my apartment, and the door clicks shut behind me.
I pull out my headphones, and the video keeps playing on speaker.
I stand by the kitchen counter, staring at my phone, still in that strange trance. It doesn’t matter where I am. I need an alpha to release me.
“Now, let me see what you did to those clothes… fuck, so wet… peel them off for me…”
I obey, piling my sweater onto the counter, then my shirt, then my jeans. Only my briefs remain. I lean out over the stone countertop, sighing at the cold.
God, I’m burning up.
My cock brushes the edge of the counter, and I whimper, my hips tense. The alpha is still wringing out my clothes.
I could skip ahead. But I don’t dare—it feels too much like disobeying an alpha, even a virtual one. I hump the counter—a sweaty, gasping mess.
“Now,” the alpha says. “Let’s see how wet that made you…”
I slip my hand under the waistband of my soaked briefs, and my skin is slick with sweat and pre-cum. When I pull my hand away, strings of moisture cling to my fingers. It’s never been this bad before.
“You need this knot, don’t you?” the recorded alpha croons.
“Yes,” I whimper aloud.
Oh god, I have no idea how thick these walls are. I’m about to find out.
I kick off my briefs and my shaft is already so slick, my hand slides so easily, that it only takes a few pumps before I cum all over the counter.
But there’s hardly any release. It’s not enough. It won’t be enough until I’m stuffed with that knot.
I dig out my dildo, vision blurring. I remember the lube this time. Even though I have the apartment to myself, I still lock myself in the bathroom and slump into the bathtub, if only for easy cleanup.
My phone is silent—the video ended. I flip to a new one, then sink onto the shaft of the dildo. I start three different videos, but none of them are working today. Something’s just off. I’m cumming and gasping, but my body’s still hanging on, holding out. I can’t get the knot in.
And then I have a terrible, wonderful idea.
No, this crosses a line.
I shouldn’t.
I can’t.
I search: Morgan Hunter speech.
A keynote from last year’s conference. Her voice fills the bathroom, echoing from my phone, as bright and commanding as it had been in person.
Oh, fuck, it’s working. The knot slides in, but I can’t help but think about how much bigger her knot is. Life-sized, my ass. Hers is bigger, I know it.
She’s saying something about sales numbers, and I’m moaning like a whore. She’s telling her team to sell, sell, sell, and I’m hearing cum, cum, cum.
And so I do. Over and over, her voice winding deep into my cells and wringing it out of me.
When I finally settle, I’m covered in a glaze of my own cum. I catch my breath and soak myself in icy water.
I dry off. Get a snack. Text Mom. But the come-down doesn’t hit. I curl up in bed and I just feel… glowy.
Which means my heat isn’t over.
#
Dreams of her wake me up in the middle of the night and send me back to the bathroom.
I spend all of Saturday in dizzy heat. Just when I think I’ve calmed down, another wave hits.
I watch years’ worth of conference footage as I whimper and writhe and pour out in the bathtub, covering the sound with Top Forty radio cranked to max because I think it’s better for my neighbors to hear that than all my moans.
I search online for soundproofing tiles.
Even though I took suppressants Friday night and only missed the Friday morning dose, I still feel that bone-deep heat on Sunday. I can ignore it, but it’s there. How much worse would it be without the suppressants? I guess I got too used to the calm of Pleasantwood.
My reaction must be so intense because it’s been so long since I last got a proper whiff of alpha. The other possibility is that it’s because of Morgan specifically, but I don’t want to deal with the implications of that, even if her voice was the only one that could bring me relief…
I carefully read the instructions on the suppressants and take a double dose on Sunday night. I’m not taking any more chances.
When the come-down hits, I bury myself under the pillows and blankets of my bed.
It smells wrong. The new foam mattress still has that polymer stink, made stronger by my heat-heightened senses.
Mom was smart enough to wash the new blankets in our usual detergent, so at least the rest of my pillow nest smells like home.
I bury my face in one of the few items I brought from Pleasantwood—a plush fox I’ve had since I was a kid.
Whenever I felt self-conscious about being an omega, Mom would say my pointed ears and copper hair made me her little fox.
Tears spill from my eyes, wicking into the matted fur.
I hate this part of being an omega: hormones having so much of an effect on my emotions, feeling like a pathetic child who can’t handle the normal stresses of life that betas face so effortlessly.
The suppressants dull the emotions, giving me some distance. I know these feelings will pass.
This was one isolated mistake. Tomorrow, I’m going to show up for my job, pretend this never happened, and put Morgan Hunter totally out of my mind.