Page 43 of Feeling the Heat: Part One
I’m too focused on the fact that I may have found a way to stay a beta. At least until I can figure out how to handle my new self and not lose all respect at my job.
Or maybe longer. Maybe they never need to know. Isn’t there a drug that keeps you from having heats?
A quick internet search proves me wrong. I would’ve needed to be on Preventar before I had my first heat. Dammit, so much for that. That ship has sailed.
Part of me wishes they’d had more advanced genetic testing when I was the age I should’ve revealed as an omega so I could’ve been prepared. The rest of me realizes that my ignorance was better than spending decades waiting to reveal. Besides, they didn’t have Preventar until a few years ago and from what I can tell, it’s kind of a scary drug.
Okay, so I can’t get rid of heats entirely, but I could get a prescription for heat suppressants, right? It would be worth most potential adverse effects if it let me go back to being myself.
Relief washes over me as my plan falls into place. Yes, it still hinges on work not making me provide a doctor’s note, but if I know how to do anything from working in PR for years, it’s how to spin a situation and use the right words to be convincing.
An hour later, I have an email drafted to the head of HR, explaining my situation. My hand shakes a little as I send it off into the ether, but it’s done. There’s nothing more I can do tonight except practice my story in case they ask me questions.
I was being treated for a medical emergency. It’s not something I feel comfortable discussing in detail, but I’m on the mend and will be back to full health in a few days.
This plan unfortunately means I can’t ask for more time off, because I need people to see in person how weak and worn out I am to help back up my story. But if it means everything will be normal once I get caught back up on the work I missed, it’s worth it.
Astrid was right. If anyone can handle becoming an omega this late in life, I can.
I pick out my outfit for tomorrow, do a quick test of the different scent neutralizers, then head to bed.
Despite my nerves, my fatigue is enough that it doesn’t take long before sleep starts to claim me. As I drift off, a memory of being cradled between two warm, solid bodies as they stroked me and whispered praise floats through my mind.
My omega let out a pathetic, sleepy whine, wishing I could be back there instead of alone in this bed, preparing to pretend like she doesn’t exist.
15
There arefew things that I love more in this world than brunch. Waking up before the rest of the house on a sleepy Sunday morning, going out for a quick walk with my girl, then coming home, cracking open some eggs, frying up some delicious artery-clogging meats, and maybe even busting out the waffle iron.
Sunday brunch was my family’s tradition when I was growing up. On days when the weather was good, Mama would take me to the park while Mom stayed home and cooked up a storm. Dad tried to help her, but she was very particular about how things were done, so he mostly awaited her orders and was on cleanup duty.
Thinking about all four of us sitting around the dining table while Mom and Dad traded good natured barbs and Mama asked me about my latest obsession—which varied from week to week—feels like being wrapped up in a warm hug. Our family had our issues, namely putting a fuckton of pressure on me to succeed when I got older, but love and connection were always in abundance.
That’s the kind of pack I want, and for the most part, we have it. Or at least we could, if we’d put a little more effort into spending time together as a unit.
It’s been way too long since our last pack brunch. We’re due for one, and I could sure as hell use a huge meal and a gallon of coffee after that marathon of a heat.
I should probably go ask River and Ambrose if they’re free for a meal together, but after I almost walked in on them mid early morning fucking a few weeks ago, I’ll just make the food and save it for leftovers if they don’t want to eat it.
My mind wanders as I pour batter into the waffle iron, my work set to the sounds of the coffee pot gurgling and Dolly snoring. I’d hid the coffee maker from Ambrose in an attempt to get him to chill out on his caffeine addiction, but I doubt either of us will be able to resist it now.
Dammit, now I’m thinking about it again. All my thoughts since I got home keep drifting back to the heat. To Camille. To how good it felt to be there for her, beyond how mind-blowing the sex was.
That’s another reason I’m up making brunch instead of lazing about in bed. If I stay up there, thinking about her, I’ll get hard and my poor dick can’t take me jerking off right now. I had to ice my crotch when I got home yesterday, and I almost cried when Dolly kept putting all of her weight directly on my balls when I was giving her apology cuddles.
My junk is out of commission for the foreseeable future.
I wonder if Ambrose is faring any better. I should put some pain relievers at his spot at the table so he doesn’t have to reach up to get them. Poor guy is probably feeling his almost fifty years today.
Though I gotta give it to him—he held his own, and then some during the heat. Dude was locked in. Makes me wonder if he’s like that all the time. If he has River call him Daddy…
My cock perks up a little and I wince both in pain and confusion. I don’t want to think about what Ambrose and River do. It’s none of my business. Even if Ambrose is hung like a horse.
I try to shake the image of him using said giant cock on Camille before I make things worse for my poor, abused dick.
It’s not weird that I thought it was hot to see them fucking, right? Watching two attractive people having sex and enjoying it would turn anyone on. I’m not a perv for thinking about how well Ambrose uses his dick.
Dolly’s happy bark startles me out of my thoughts, and I look up from where I was mindlessly washing off some blueberries to see the man in question, looking sleep-rumpled and stiff.
