Page 24 of Knot Your Sugar

As if on cue, my body hits replay. My thighs press together, trying to quell the throbbing ache that’s returned with a vengeance, a vivid encore of my forest adventure.

Clearly, my hormones have staged a coup, and my brain is along for the mortifying ride.

I make a beeline for the living room, my gaze locking onto the small, innocent-looking pill container on the kitchen counter just a few steps away. The urge to pop an extra dose right now is overwhelming. But my doctor's stern warning echoes in my ears:“No less than eighteen hours between doses, Elena, unless you want to risk heart palpitations, dizziness, even fainting.”Right. Not pretty. Better to stick to the plan: double dose in the morning. New, improved, alpha-proof regimen. I can survive one night of… heightened awareness. Probably.

Besides, it’s not like I’m going to magically stumble upon any more dangerously attractive alphas lurking in my closet.

Except… one alpha’s presence is definitely still lingering. My chef's jacket. Dorian. His scent. God it's mouthwatering.

I strip off my clothes, intending to toss the offending item directly into the biohazard bin (okay, the hamper, but with extreme prejudice). But my hand, the traitorous appendage, hasother ideas. Before my brain can issue a cease-and-desist order, I’m bringing the soft cotton to my nose, inhaling deeply, like a complete and utter lunatic. His scent floods my senses. It’s a direct hit, triggering a full-color rush of memories: his hands, firm and possessive on my hips; his mouth, hot and demanding on my neck; the low, guttural growl that vibrated through his chest when I…

A sudden gush of slick between my thighs snaps me back to the mortifying present. I yelp, dropping the jacket as if it’s coated in acid, my face burning with a mixture of arousal and sheer horror.

"The shower. I need a very long shower," I mutter, stumbling toward the bathroom.

I step under the spray but it doesn't help. If anything, the sensation of hot water running down my body only heightens my awareness of every tingling nerve ending, every sensitive, neglected spot that’s currently screaming for attention like a streamer on Twitch.

With a groan that’s half-despair, half-surrender, I give in. It’s either this or spontaneously combust. My hand, trembling slightly, drifts downwards, finding the slick between my thighs. I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool, wet tiles, and let the fantasies take over.

Dorian, of course, is front and center. The way he looked at me in the moonlight, that raw hunger in his silver eyes, the possessive way his hands explored my body… My fingers move, mimicking the pressure, the rhythm of his hips. A soft moan escapes me.

But then, unbidden, another image superimposes itself. Cole. Steady, heroic Cole, his gaze calm and reassuring as he pulled me from the brink of a fiery disaster. The way his uniform stretched taut across his broad, capable shoulders… the memory of his strong, gentle hands guiding me... My hips begin to move,a slow, involuntary sway against my own touch as I imagine that quiet strength turned to a more intimate purpose. He’d be thorough, I bet. Methodical. In a good way. Averygood way.

Just as that thought sends a fresh wave of heat through me, a sudden, sharpthudfrom the other side of the bathroom wall makes me jump, my eyes flying open. My heart jackhammers. What was that? Did something fall? The sound, jarring and unexpected, momentarily shatters the sensual haze.

But the interruption is fleeting. The ache, theneed, is too strong. I close my eyes again, my breathing quickening, and then, to my absolute, utter mortification,Jamesstruts into my mental movie. James! With his infuriatingly cocky smirk, his perfectly tousled hair, and the precise, confident way his fingers worked the palmier dough this morning. The sheer audacity of my own brain! I must be losing it. And yet… the image of those skilled hands, so sure and deft, doing other… things… My fingers tighten, my pace quickening, the mental image shamefully effective. My body doesn’t care he’s an egomaniac; it just registers ‘alpha’ and ‘skilled hands’, which is apparently enough to get the job done. I’m making whimpering noises now, completely unable to stop myself. This is loud. This is embarrassing. This is…ah.

My movements grow more urgent, a desperate, frantic rhythm against my clit. I brace myself against the shower wall with my free hand, my knuckles white, gasping as the tension coils tighter and tighter within me. When release finally shatters through my system, it’s a violent, bucking wave that rips a choked cry from my throat and leaves me boneless, knees buckling, sliding down the cool tiles. Thank God for the shower wall, or I’d be a heap on the floor.

The relief is immense, a blessed, temporary silencing of my screaming need. But as my pulse begins to slow, a cold worry snakes its way in. This is just a stopgap. A Band-Aid on a gapingwound. With my DuoBlocks clearly on the fritz, will a double dose really prevent this…omega-ness… from roaring back?

"Get it together, Elena," I mutter to my reflection in the steamed-up shower door, my voice raspy. I resolutely turn the water faucet as far to the ‘Arctic Blast’ setting as it will go. The shock of the icy spray is brutal, but it helps. A little. It clears my head enough to formulate a plan. Or at least, the beginnings of one.

I dry off quickly, yanking on my oldest, baggiest sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt. The other clothing item, Dorian’s olfactory calling card, is still lying on the living room floor like a discarded weapon. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will deal with it. Wash it. Burn it. Whatever.

For now, escape. Bed. Sleep. Or at least, a valiant attempt at unconsciousness. I have another long, grueling day of competition tomorrow. I need to be sharp, focused, professional. I need to be in complete control of myself, my hormones, and my apparently very vivid imagination.

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, intriguingscent 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.

---