Zander – POV
I glare at my hand.
Specifically, my dominant one.
It twitches slightly in my lap, still sore from the third night in a row of doing what it was never designed for this frequently. My wrist aches, my knuckles are tense, and I'm pretty sure my forearm has developed more definition than my gym sessions ever managed.
This is getting ridiculous.
I drop my hand with a grunt and flop back into my home office chair, staring blankly at the ceiling as if it holds answers to life's cruelest mysteries. It doesn't.
Three days.
Three. Whole. Days.
Each time Ivan's heat surges, he calls me. Sometimes sobbing. Sometimes giggling. Sometimes slurring his words so thickly I have to talk him through how to use the damn remote like we're defusing a bomb.
And like a fool, I answer every single time.
Because it's Ivan.
Because I can't not. Because I want need to hear him.
I've spent three days giving him instructions through clenched teeth, my voice low and fraying at the edges, trying to keep calm while he moans my name into my ear like a prayer laced in sin.
He's insatiable.
Or maybe it's me.
Maybe I'm the one who's losing it.
I swipe a hand down my face. I haven't been this sexually frustrated since I was sixteen and pretending I didn't have an omega fetish the size of the Pacific. Not that I've actively worked on it, until Ivan.
It's not just the physical part either—though, let's be honest, that would be enough. It's everything else.
It's the way his voice goes breathless when he says my name. The way he begs so prettily without realizing it. The way he calls me afterwards, once he's come down, sleepy and soft and satisfied, just to say thank you like I gave him the world.
And then he hangs up.
And I'm left there.
Sweaty. Alone. Ache unresolved. Pride absolutely shattered.
My hand drops onto the desk with a loud thud.
It's not helping anymore.
Not even a little.
The novelty wore off somewhere between the second and third orgasm. Now it's just mechanical. Desperate.
And frankly? Pathetic.
I cross my arms and glare at the desk like it personally offended me.
I don't even know how I kept from going over there. Every time he cried, every time he whimpered and whispered that it wasn't enough, I wanted to drop everything, break my own rules, and be enough.
But I didn't.
Because I promised.
Because I told him our first time wouldn't be like this—not when he was delirious and begging for anything that breathed.
It had to mean something.
Which, great in theory.
In execution?
Absolute torture.
The scent of his pheromones still lingers in my mind like it's tattooed into my senses. It was everywhere—seeping through the phone, coating my tongue with imagined sweetness, filling the gaps of my rational thought like smoke in a locked room probably my imagination but that's beside the point.
Each call pushed me closer to the edge.
And every time I told myself this is the last, he'd make a sound—that sound—and suddenly I'm half-dressed in my chair again like a pervert possessed.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale.
I should have set a hard boundary—pun not intended.
But try saying no when your omega is crying and saying your name like it's the only thing grounding him to earth.
Try saying no when the most beautiful person you've ever seen is sobbing through a vibrator and begging for you, even when he's barely coherent.
I couldn't.
And honestly? I didn't want to.
But the moment he texted me this morning—"I think it's over."
I could've cried.
I stared at the screen in silence for a full minute before replying with a thumbs-up emoji because I had no words left.
My dignity is in shambles. My body is wrecked. And my self-control is hanging on by a thread I'm not entirely sure is still attached.
Still…
A slow, treacherous smile curves my lips.
Now that the heat is over—
Now that he's thinking clearly again—
I'm going to ruin him.
Properly. Thoroughly.
No remote. No toys. No distance.
Just my hands on his hips, my voice in his ear, and the real thing instead of a poor imitation.
I can wait a few more days to give him time to recover.
Then he's mine.
And this time, I'm not leaving it to imagination.