Page 110 of Found by the Pack
But his voice cuts in and out, fading, his words breaking like glass through the line.
I rub harder, frantic, desperate for another release. My cries are raw, messy, shame tangled with need. I come again, quick and jagged, but it’s shallow, unsatisfying.
“I need help,” I sob, pressing the cool glass harder against my fevered skin. “Please, Boone. I can’t?—”
But the line drops again, leaving me in silence.
The phone slips from my hand. My chest heaves. My body trembles, wrung out and still hungry, still desperate, the fire inside me nowhere near quenched.
And all I can think, all I can feel, is that I need him.
Now.
The orgasm doesn’t hold. It shreds me open, leaves me gasping, but the fire doesn’t go out. It only coils tighter, more vicious. My thighs are slick, the sheets damp with sweat and arousal, and still it’s not enough. My body wants more. Demands it.
I try again, my hand frantic, dragging across my clit, curling inside myself until my wrist aches. I press harder, move faster, grind into my own palm until I’m half-screaming with frustration. Nothing. The release teases, pulls me to the brink, then snatches itself away again, leaving me sobbing.
“Why won’t this work?” I cry out, my voice raw. Tears blur my vision as I arch against the mattress, begging my own body for mercy. “Please,” I choke, my other hand fisting the sheets. “Please, just let me come.”
The tears spill freely, hot against my cheeks. I’m drenched in sweat, hair plastered to my temples, and the shame of it—Shepard’s sheets under me, Boone’s voice still echoing in my head, my body betraying me like this—it all makes me sob harder.
“Fuck!” I scream, the word tearing from my throat. I slam my palm against the mattress in helpless rage, the sound cracking through the room.
A knock comes. Soft but immediate.
“Sadie?” Shepard’s muffled voice threads through the door. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I sob. I yank the sheet up, dragging it over my body like flimsy armor, my hands shaking.
“Can I bring you anything?” he asks gently. But underneath, I can hear it—the tight strain, the way his control is stretched thin.
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks. I press my forehead against my knees, curling tight under the sheet, trembling. “I don’t know what I need.”
I stumble upright, legs barely holding me, the sheet clutched around my chest. I’m shaking, shivering, but heat pours off me in waves. My body is a live wire, humming with need, and nothing I do dulls it.
The door feels like a wall I can’t cross, but my hand still twists the knob. I pull it open.
Shepard is right there, his glasses slightly askew, his shoulders taut with tension. Behind him, Gabe is seated in the chair by the bookshelf, hands braced on his thighs, eyes locked on me.
I freeze, breath shuddering. They both look at me, not unkind, but too sharp, too aware, and it makes something in me fracture further.
“I don’t know what to do,” I ramble, words tumbling out, desperate. “I can’t—I tried—but it doesn’t work, nothing works, and I’m losing my mind, and Boone isn’t here—someone tell me what to do.” My voice is high, hysterical. My tears streak down my cheeks as I press the sheet tighter around me.
Shepard’s throat bobs, and he speaks carefully. “What happened with Boone?”
“The call dropped,” I whisper. My chest heaves. “He isn’t answering. I can’t reach him.”
“I can go find him,” Gabe says, clipped, decisive. He starts to rise.
“No!” The word rips from me, panicked and sharp. I stagger forward, sheet slipping with the movement. “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave me.”
Gabe freezes. Shepard blinks, caught between concern and something else, something darker.
An irrational part of me pushes forward, raw and needy. The sheet slides lower, baring more of my chest than I should ever allow. I don’t care.
I don’t care about shame, or logic, or restraint. My body is in flames, and every nerve screams for relief.
“Please,” I whisper, the word breaking apart. My lips tremble. “Please help me. Someone help me.”
