28. Mara
Mara
The inside of the car is a goddamn sauna. It's like the four horsemen of the apocalypse decided to throw a rager in here.
Outside, a world of pristine and blinding white is flying by, a winter wonderland that should be making me feel cozy and festive. Instead, I'm wedged in the back seat, my personal thermostat cranked up to "surface of the sun," and I'm pretty sure my sweat is sweating.
Gray is driving, his hands on the wheel, his eyes focused on the slushy road. He's the picture of calm, the scent of smoked pine and cool rain wafting from him.
It should be soothing.
It's not.
Daniel is silent in the passenger seat, and he's a black hole of brooding energy. He hasn't said a word since we left the hospital, just stares out the window, his jaw set so hard I'm surprised his teeth haven't cracked.
His scent is different from Gray's. It's darker, richer, cedar and sage and a storm brewing on the horizon. It's an Alpha scent, and it's doing things to me. Things that are making this whole personal heatwave situation a million times worse.
Their scents are mixing with mine, creating a potent, heady cocktail in the enclosed space.
My usual honeysuckle and rain is still there, but it's thicker now, sweeter, with an undercurrent of warm, fertile honey that's been growing stronger all day.
It's the scent of pre-heat, and my body is responding to the proximity of two powerful Alphas like a flower to the sun.
A very, very horny flower.
I'm clutching Gray's coat in my lap. He put it around my shoulders back at the hospital and I never gave it back, and now I'm burying my face in the rough wool, inhaling deeply.
It smells like him, like safety and calm, and it's the only thing keeping me from climbing over the seats and doing something truly stupid.
I nuzzle the collar, my cheek brushing against the scratchy fabric, and a soft, involuntary sigh escapes my lips.
My eyes drift up, and I freeze. Gray is watching me in the rearview mirror. His eyes are locked on mine, and there's no judgment there, no amusement. Just a deep, knowing understanding that makes my stomach clench.
He saw me. He saw me acting like a touch-starved freak, huffing his coat like a drug.
Heat floods my cheeks and I quickly drop the coat, my heart hammering against my ribs. I stare out my own window, refusing to look at him, refusing to look at Daniel. I just focus on the blur of snow-covered trees.
Get a grip, Mara. You're not some animal in heat. You took your pill this morning. You're a person. A person with control.
Except I have zero control. My body is a traitor, and it's currently staging a full-blown rebellion.
Gray pulls into a grimy, roadside gas station with flickering neon signs that promise "FOOD" and "FUEL." Thank god. The second he cuts the engine, Daniel shoves his seat forward and I scramble out of the back, gulping in the frigid air like it's the elixir of life.
"I'm going to grab some food," Gray says, his voice calm. "You guys want anything?"
"Just water," Daniel and I say in unison.
Leo isn't here. The thought hits me out of nowhere, a pang of something sharp and needy. He's probably back at the café, charming the locals, smelling like citrus and sunshine and some other woman's cheap perfume.
No. Stop it. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought.
I head inside, the bell over the door jingling a cheerful, tinny tune.
The place is a dive, all chipped linoleum and dusty shelves lined with bags of chips that look like they've been here since the nineties.
I make a beeline for the bathroom, my bladder screaming for relief and my face screaming for a splash of cold water.
The bathroom is exactly as gross as I expected it to be.
One flickering fluorescent bulb, a toilet that looks like it hasn't been cleaned since the Bush administration, and a sink with mysterious stains.
I lock the door behind me, the click echoing in the small, tiled space.
I do my business, and as I'm pulling up my leggings, my fingers brush against the fabric between my legs.
And it's wet.
Not just a little damp. Slick. Soaking.
My blood runs cold. I took my pill this morning. I swear I did. I never forget. Why is this happening? Panic claws at my throat, but it's quickly overshadowed by a different, more insistent feeling. A deep, throbbing ache that seems to originate from my very core.
My fingers are still there, pressed against the damp fabric. On instinct, I rub. Just a small, experimental circle.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Instant, blinding relief. It's like a switch has been flipped. The ache doesn't go away, but it transforms, sharpening into a pulse that demands more. I do it again, a little harder this time, my head falling back against the tiled wall.
Fuck. This is wrong. This is a public bathroom. But I can't stop. I can't.
I force myself to stop, my hand trembling as I stumble to the sink.
I turn on the cold water, cupping my hands and splashing it on my face.
It helps, but only for a second. As I'm drying my hands, I lean against the counter, and the hard edge presses perfectly against my clit through the thin fabric of my leggings.
My hips move of their own accord, a slow grind against the counter.
Fuck. I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle the moan that threatens to escape.
The pressure is exquisite. It's better than my fingers, better than the pillow.
It's hard and unyielding and exactly what I need.
I do it again, rocking my hips, the friction sending sparks of pleasure shooting up my spine.
My nipples are so hard they ache, two tight, sensitive points pressing against the fabric of my bra.
My mind drifts, and suddenly it's not the edge of a dirty gas station counter I'm rubbing against. It's Leo.
I can almost feel his hands on my hips, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers all the things he wants to do to me.
I can taste the salt on his skin, smell the citrus and cold air that clings to him.
The fantasy is so vivid, so real, that a real whimper escapes my lips.
I don't know how long I've been in here.
Time has lost all meaning. It could be five minutes or it could be fifty.
All I know is the ache, the desperate, chasing pleasure, and the image of Leo's face in my mind.
My eyes feel glazed over, and a bead of sweat slides down my neck, tracing a path between my breasts.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sound is so loud it makes me jump, my heart leaping into my throat. "Mara?" It's Gray. His voice is muffled by the door, but I can hear the concern in it. "Are you all right in there?"
"I'm fine," I call out, my voice a breathy, unconvincing mess. "I'll be out in a minute."
Silence.
"I'm coming in," he announces.
"I'm okay!"
"You don't sound okay."
The door swings open.
He's standing in the doorway, his tall frame blocking out the light from the store. One large hand is covering his eyes; the other holds the bathroom key.
"What's going on, Mara? Why are you locked in here?"
I take in a shallow breath, rubbing against the counter again. "I can't… fuck. It's too much."
"Fuck… I can smell you, you know?"
"Gray," I moan, grinding again. I need relief.
His Adam's apple bobs before he drops his hand.
His eyes take in the scene—me, pressed against the counter, my face flushed, my hair a mess, my leggings dark with moisture—and his expression doesn't change. He doesn't look angry or disgusted. He just looks… clinical.
And something else. Something darker.
"I can't stop," I whisper, the words a shameful confession. "Gray, I can't stop."
He watches me for a long moment. Then he steps inside, closing the door behind him.
He leans against the door, crossing his arms over his chest, and just watches me.
He watches as my hips start to move again, my body seeking the friction it craves.
He watches as my eyes flutter closed, a soft moan escaping my lips.
He licks his teeth, a motion that sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to my core. He pushes off the door and walks toward me, his movements slow, predatory. He stops right in front of me, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Sweetheart," he says, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "Does it hurt?"
"Mmh." I nod, unable to form words.
He leans in, and I feel the wet heat of his tongue against my neck, licking away the bead of sweat.
"You smell so good," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire.
"Like honey and sunshine and everything I've ever wanted.
" He pulls back, his eyes searching mine.
"What are you thinking about right now? Tell me. "
"Cock," I whimper, the word torn from me, a raw, honest admission of my depravity.
A low growl rumbles in his chest, and his hand comes to rest on my hip, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above my waistband. He rubs me through the fabric of my leggings, his touch firm, confident, exactly what I need. He tugs at my earlobe with his teeth, a sharp and delicious bite.
"Should I get Daniel?" he asks, a whisper against my skin.
"No," I beg, my hands flying to his wrist, holding him in place. "Please don't stop."
"I won't, sweetheart," he promises. "I won't stop." His hands move to the hem of my sweater, and he pulls it up, over my head, and off. "Hold this for me," he says, pressing the bundled-up fabric into my hands.
I clutch the sweater to my chest, my bare skin pebbling in the cool air. His eyes roam over my body, over the thin lace of my bra and the damp spot on my leggings. "On a scale of one to ten," he says, once again taking on that clinical, doctorly tone, "how bad is the ache?"
"Ten," I breathe. "It's a ten."
"Is it a sharp pain or a dull throb?"
"Throb. Definitely a throb."