Zander – POV
It's been two days.
Two whole days since Ivan's heat officially started.
And I've been doing everything in my power not to think about it.
So instead, I've been living in my office.
All-nighters. Extra meetings. Taking on contracts that should go to my interns. Anything to keep my mind from straying to him.
Curled up.
Hot.
Slick.
Wearing my hoodie.
Sniffing my shirts.
Using my gift.
Nope.
I snap myself out of it, blink hard at my screen, and attempt to force my brain to think about profit margins instead of guttural moans.
It's 9PM. Again.
I rub my temples. I should go home. I really should.
But I just want to finish filing this last set of contracts—
Then my phone lights up.
Ringing.
Ivan.
My heart skips. But before I can even answer, the call ends.
What the hell?
I grab the phone, hit redial immediately. It rings once. Twice. A third time.
No answer.
By the fifth ring, I'm halfway to calling Maksim and ordering him to kick the door down when—
Click.
The call connects.
There's nothing. Just a faint ambient sound. Then, a loud thud.
Something hitting the floor?
My entire body goes still.
"Ivan?" I say, trying to keep my voice even. "Ivan, can you hear me?"
There's a pause, and then his voice filters through, syrupy and slurred:
"Zander? Zander? Is that youuuu…"
And just like that, I exhale. Relief, thick and heady.
"Yes, my sweet prince. You called me," I say, already picturing the flushed dazed look on his face.
"Are you okay? Did something happen?"
"When I said it was too biggg, I lieeedddd…" he moans.
I freeze.
My grip on the phone tightens.
"...I'm glad it's working well," I manage, adjusting the collar of my shirt because suddenly it feels too damn hot in this room.
"But it's not enouggghh—I want youuuu," he cries, and then starts full-on sobbing.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The sound guts me. It's messy, unfiltered, desperate. His breaths come in hiccups, and I can picture it too vividly—his knees curled up, his chest heaving, that lovely mouth trembling.
I grip the edge of my desk.
"Ivan. Sweetheart. I know. I know you do. Just breathe for me, okay? Drink some water—"
"You don't wannnt meeee…" he chokes out.
"Youuu said next time and next time is foreverrrr… you're not hereeeeee."
Okay.
He's delirious.
Dehydrated.
Probably feverish.
His pheromones must be all over the place.
His voice trembles through the phone.
"It's not enough…" he sobs again, and this time I can hear it.
The squelch.
The soft, slick, wet sounds of him trying to satisfy an ache that I know for a fact won't be soothed by silicone alone.
I lean back into my chair like I'm being pressed down by gravity itself, my hand gripping the edge of the desk, hard.
Who have I offended to deserve this?
He's crying. Whimpering.
Each little sound filters into my ears like a curse.
"I know, sweetheart," I manage to say, the words low, guttural.
But I'm fighting a war inside.
A war between the alpha in me that wants to storm his door, rip apart every boundary, and tie him to my chest until he stops shaking—and the man who promised we'd do this right.
Then—
A moan.
And that wet sound again. Faster this time.
I reach up and tug my tie even looser, unbuttoning the top of my shirt as I tip my head back against the chair and bite down on a curse.
"You remember the remote, don't you?" I rasp out, hoping, praying he can focus.
But there's only a string of broken sounds—frustrated, feverish, needy.
"Ivan," I say, sharper now. "Sweetheart. Pay attention."
There's a pause.
A breath. A shiver.
"Hmmnnn…?"
"Remote," I repeat, trying not to press the heel of my palm too firmly against the bulge straining in my pants.
My self-control is already paper-thin.
"Okay…" he slurs, and I almost collapse in relief.
At least he can still process commands.
"I… I found it…" he murmurs a second later, breath hitching.
I hear the telltale click of the remote.
Then a pause.
Then—
A deep, broken moan that shoots straight through my bloodstream like fire.
I close my eyes, jaw clenched, the outline of my arousal now painfully obvious.
My hand ghosts over it through my slacks, but I don't dare go further.
I take a shaky breath.
"Set it to pulse," I say, my voice low, commanding.
"Level three. Can you do that for me?"
Another sound.
Whining.
A click.
Then—
"Ahhh—Zander—!"
I slam my eyes shut, tipping my head back again, the pressure at the base of my spine nearly snapping me in half.
This is torture.