Page 49 of Broken Heat
“I should be here,” he said, almost as a question.
I was very aware of his flowering scent, and that my erection was pushing with some force against my sarong. It made controlling my rut more frustrating. Why had I opened the door to him? I wasn’t thinking right.
Hewasn’t thinking right.
“How much did Senta tell you?” I wanted to go to the couch and sit, put a pillow over my middle. But I didn’t want to lead Elon into feeling comfortable, like I was just going to allow him to settle in for a conversation—or whatever.
“He told me I was getting another surrogate. But I don’t want another surrogate!” Elon’s head was slightly bowed and he spoke through tight lips. His hair was not slicked, curling slightly at the ends. It would be like touching the finest fringe if I could merely reach up and run my fingers through it.
“I can’t be your surrogate, Elon.” I tried to keep my voice calm. Low.
“It’s okay. I came here because I needed to. I wanted to. Not for you to go to work and therapize me.”
“Therapize?” I almost laughed. But I was anything but humored. This was a serious situation to have a client come to the barracks. I was in rut. I was not allowed around clients in this state. Ever. If anyone knew, I could lose my standing in the organization.
The surrogacy training programs were taken seriously by those involved. We had our own standards and practices, our own moral codes. The rules were very clear both on Omega Island and off. No ruts was one of them.
“I don’t know all the right words. Senta told me I couldn’t contact you or see you. But he couldn’t understand.” Elon tapped his head. “I couldn’t make him understand. What—what—I was going through.”
Elon looked at me with such pleading in his blue eyes. Were those tears? Something inside me turned over, making me catch my breath.
My empathy card took that very moment to play its hand.
“It’s all right.” I couldn’t stand there with Elon looking so forlorn, and maybe a bit scared that he’d failed, or that I’d turn him away. He had come all this way. Sneaked up the wrong path. Entered the barracks. Found my door without directions. Though he looked crisp and clean and smelled like melting sugar, he had a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Come,” I said. “Sit down. But you’re only staying for a minute.”
I gestured toward my living room couch, which was one of my favorite places to hang out with its smooth blue upholstery and dark blue, extra large, throw pillows.
As long as I didn’t start to swell a knot while we talked, I could control myself. Everything would be okay. I could talk to Elon and make him understand that he would be all right.
It didn’t help matters any that in my rut I wanted him so badly I could barely breathe. But I could control it. Elon would be fine. And I would tolerate the rut until it ended.
I hid the fact that my knees were shaking as I took a spot in the direct center of my couch, forcing Elon to choose the black, extra cushiony chair by the sliding glass doors overlooking my patio.
The sunlight sparkled in through the glass, lighting a silvery halo about Elon’s head. He had already sparkled greatly standing in my doorway. Like his skin was suffused in liquid light. He was the prettiest omega I’d ever seen, taking up space in my presence, asking to be let in. Looking desperate and so very very fine.
I focused on pushing air from my lungs slowly, smooth and in control, then drawing it back in. I did this several times, calming my body. My cock was a rock, but at least I could hold the rest of myself in balance, chin up.
“I woke up and you had left. Did you feel it then?” Elon asked.
“The rut? Not when I left you to rest. I promise I fully intended to come back this morning and have breakfast with you.”
“Was it me?” His face, so perfect and smooth, wrinkled at the brow.
“Was what you?”
“My condition that caused you—thisto happen.”
“It’s an unexpected rut. It can occur sometimes. That’s that.”
He pressed his lips tight together, as if in dismissal of my answer. His eyes grew shiny.
“Elon, sweetheart.” Realizing I’d just called him an endearment during a rut, I rushed on. “You were perfect yesterday and last night. It’s not you. You didn’t do this. You were responding beautifully to your—your—”
“My therapy.” He finished for me. “But sometime during last night the surrogacy feeling stopped. For me, at least.”
I felt myself inhale and hold it. “What?”
