Page 221 of Knotting the Firefighters
Heat.
Real, honest-to-god heat. After months of nothing, my body decides to dropkick me into Omega hell in the middle of a staff meeting.
I squeeze my thighs together, discreet as possible, but it only makes the ache more intense. Pressure builds, slick pooling against soaked panties, every breath another sharp reminder ofhow empty I am. How desperately I want—need—someone to fill me.
Even blinking is an effort. Every nerve ending is short-circuiting, my chest heaving like I've run a marathon. My heart's beating so fast I think it's audible over Bear and Flynn arguing about the new turnout gear.
I'm going to lose it. In front of everyone. Right here, in broad daylight, under the anemic glare of the overhead bulb.
If Calder or Silas were here, they'd recognize the signs in seconds. But I'm alone, except for Aidric. And right now, he's the only thing between me and absolute, catastrophic humiliation.
His chair scrapes the floor, the sound slicing through the low buzz of conversation. Aidric stands, posture predatory, and all talk in the room dies instantly.
"Chief Murphy and I need a word outside. Now."
His voice isn't shouting. Doesn't need to. Just drops like a weighted blanket over the group—silencing every question before it forms.
I don't remember standing up. One moment, I'm sweating through my uniform, the next, Aidric has a firm grip on my elbow, guiding me out, his touch searing through the sleeve.
We leave chaos behind—Bear's startled hmm? flaring to concern, the rookies trading feverish whispers, but Aidric doesn't slow. He hauls me down the corridor, shoves the door closed behind us, and only when we're alone does he let himself look at me properly.
"Wendolyn."
It's not a question. It's a diagnosis.
I'm shaking. Actually, physically shaking. My face is burning, my body is burning, I'm terrified I'm going to combust and leave nothing but a puddle of Omega need on the linoleum.
He crowd my space—hands bracing on either side of my head, staring down at me like he can will the world into submission.
"How long?"
The words are a low growl. It shouldn't flip my stomach, but it does.
I swallow, desperate to stay upright.
"Started maybe halfway through the meeting. Got worse fast."
He curses, which is new for him. "Fuck. I could smell it. Half the crew could."
My cheeks flush hotter. I want to crawl into a hole and die. Or crawl into Aidric’s lap and?—
Nope. Not going there.
But the look in his eyes—storm clouds ready to break, hunger barely in check—makes me shiver.
"Don't worry," he says, softer now, voice like smooth bourbon. "I'm getting you home. Now."
He doesn't wait for an argument. One arm wraps around my waist, guiding me—almost lifting me—down the corridor and out the front door. We’re in the truck before I can even register the shift, him buckling my seatbelt with hands that linger, just a beat too long, on my shoulder, my chest, my thigh.
The scent in the cab is overwhelming. His personal darkness—cedar smoke and clean linen—mixes with my vanilla, my sweat, my sick-sweet desperation. My brain goes blank every time he exhales.
Aidric drives like a man possessed. Every stop sign is optional, every turn negotiated with the confidence of someone who’s spent their entire life prepared to race against disaster.
My hands fumble for purchase—dashboard, door, the rough denim of his thigh. Every touch is a shock. Every movementmakes the ache sharper, the slick between my legs heavier, wetter.
I want to ask him if he's mad. If I'm embarrassing him. If this is just some obligation—Omega biology dictating his schedule, ruining his plans.
But I can't speak. My tongue is swollen, breath coming in shallow gasps.
