Page 86 of Let It Snow
Guests?
The word sticks in my throat, but Jordan’s already gone down the stairs. Of course he has no idea I’m in heat. As a beta, he can’t smell pheromones. And my red face? Oh well, there can be so many reasons for that.
I force down a few pancakes, though food goes in with difficulty. That’s typical too, omegas during heat can only stomach small, high-calorie meals, mostly sugar. I lick maple syrup from the plate, then stare at the door, uneasy.
What the hell does it mean that the Nolans have guests? Are they staying? Passing through?
Please let them not catch my scent.
That would be humiliating.
I don’t want to think about it. I’ve got bigger problems. I throw myself back on the bed and grab the dildo, starting another round, but it’s even worse this time.
The dildo doesn’t knot!
And going through heat without a knot is torture. Only a knot can bring the deep, breeding orgasms that calm and soften the waves. Without it, I’m fucked.
Exhausted, I collapse. When I wake again, maybe an hour later, the waves come even sharper, if that’s even possible. Why is this heat so fucking wild?
And the worst part? I only want one thing. One person, to be exact.
Snow.
Snow!
After everything, after the betrayal and the pain, I still want him. Am I pathetic?
The moment I close my eyes, I see his face above me, long blond strands brushing my neck as he thrusts into me in my imagination.
I snap my eyes open and fling myself off the bed, crashing onto the floor like a rabid animal. A guttural, sexual howl rips out of me, an AO sound meant to call an alpha.
Instinct takes over. I’m already lost.
Snow. I need Snow. That blond bastard who sticks his dick in married omegas and breeds the hell out of them. Time to breed me.
I lunge for the door, yank it open hard, and tear down the stairs like a madman, to the second floor, then the first.
My head is a mess, and nothing lines up. My memory is even more shredded, and I can’t remember what Jordan just said.
Then it hits me: the stairs dump straight into the living room, and the guests are definitely there.
I barrel down, taking two steps at a time, and burst into the parlor. I freeze halfway through the room. The sexual howl I was emitting dies off in my throat. My eyes lock on the table and on who’s sitting around it.
My nose is now extremely sensitive, and I can detect their subgenders immediately.
Alphas!
Of all the possible disasters, of course this is the one that happens.
An omega in heat, spreading pheromones everywhere, stumbles into a room full of alphas. It’s a nightmare sketch brought to life.
Or a porn screenplay.
My panic explodes into a desperate groan. Of those four alphas, I know just one: Bay.
He’s the only one who stays seated. The other three snap up like coiled animals.
My scent has already filled the room. Low, heavy growls roll out of them: it's AO mating language, a response to an omega’s call: a direct,"I’ll take care of this. I’m ready for you!"
