Page 29 of Scrum Heat

Then the camera cuts to Jax silently lifting a tire. His veins are doing the most, his arms look like they bench press regret, and his whole vibe isdeeplyunhelpful to my mental health.

I let out a sound into the hoodie sleeve. It’s not dignified. It might not even be human.

Still, I rewind, and hit play again.

This time, I swear the hoodiepurrs.

I curl tighter into the nest. The air smells like alpha, like muscle and musk and something darker underneath—all four of them embedded in the fabric of this room, of thishouse, of me.

My thighs clench as my skin prickles all over. My mouth has turned completely dry, and my hormones are staging a military coup.

I amnotsurviving this job. Hell, I’m not surviving thishoodie.

And if one more clip auto-plays with Theo saying“how low do you want me?”while lunging into camera like a living thirst trap, then I might just do something truly, cosmically stupid.

*

I have no idea how long I’ve been lying here under the very loose excuse of editing.

Which is, of course, a complete and utter lie. I haven’t edited a damn thing.

My phone’s propped up on a pillow, and somehow—I don’t evenknowhow—I’m now in nothing but Theo’s hoodie and my underwear.

My yoga pants?Gone. My baby pink tee?No idea.

I swear, one minute I was checking video framing, the next I was half-naked in a hormone nest and making questionable decisions under the influence of alpha sweat.

The next clip loads, and it’s Theo again. He’s mid-lunge, shirt plastered to his abs and sweat glistening. He’s laughing—probably amused at himself, but possibly directed at me—but the camera is focused and committed, and it catcheseverything.

The sweep of his huge hand across his thick neck. The visible flex of his broad, strong thighs. The frankly illegal roll of his hips as he rises out of the lunge.

“Slow enough for you, sweetheart?” video-Theo drawls.

I make a sound that’s definitely not safe for work. Hell, it’s not even safe for public parks.

I can’t help myself, though.

I hit replay.

Then again.

Then once more, pretending it’s for quality control.

My thighs press together instinctively as heat flashes across my skin like a warning siren. My scent is rising again, and I’ve no blockers left to fight it, no distractions to pull me away.

“Oh my god,” I whisper into the hoodie. “I need an intervention.”

Still, I rewind and watch as Theo lunges again, and Ifeelit this time—low and deep and devastating.

I shouldn’t. I absolutely shouldn’t.

But the blanket Finn gave me—the one that smells like mint, almond, and him—is right next to me; folded, soft, and sohim.

I move without thought, dragging it between my legs…

And the pressure is perfect.

It’s shameful. It’s filthy.

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