I lost track of the hours somewhere after the 3rd orgasm, time folding over on itself in the small stone room at the end of De Wolfshoeve’s east wing where the sheets underneath me were soaked through with sweat and slick and I’d stopped caring about the sheets around hour 2 when my body had made it clear that dignity was not a currency it recognised during a heat.
Dr.
Vos had driven me here at 3, an hour early ’cause my temperature had hit 39.1 in the car and I’d spent the drive with my forehead against the cold window, my hands clenched between my thighs and my joggers already damp.
She’d walked me to the room, shown me the water, the protein bars, the towels stacked on the chair, handed me the suppressants, said take 2 every 6 hours and call me if you can’t keep them down.
Then she’d locked the door from the outside, then she left, and I’d been alone since.
The heat had started slow, a rolling warmth building behind my navel, and I’d thought I could handle it, thought the suppressants would take the edge off.
For maybe just 40 minutes, they did, then my body just bulldozed through them.
The warmth became a burn, then the burn became a need so physical it had weight and texture pressing down on my skin from the inside, my cock hard and aching, the slick running down my thighs in steady warm streams.
I’d stripped naked within the hour ’cause every piece of fabric on my body felt like fingers and my skin couldn’t tell the difference between cloth and touch.
I’d come 3 times already, each one ripping through me harder than the last, my hole clenching around 3 fingers and producing more slick with every contraction, the sheets getting wetter, the sweet scent filling the room so thick the air tasted of it.
After the 3rd time I’d lain there shaking, spent, thinking the worst had passed.
It hadn’t passed, it was just breathing between rounds.
The 4th wave hit me curled on my side and it was the worst yet, the need so sharp my vision whited at the edges and I was on my back with my knees up and my hand between my legs before I’d made a conscious decision to move.
3 fingers pushing in and my body swallowing them, clenching and pulling, wet and desperate, and I fucked myself on my hand and it wasn’t enough, wasn’t close to enough ’cause my body didn’t want fingers anymore.
My body wanted to be filled, stretched, held down and fucked until the burning stopped, and I could feel that need in my jaw, behind my eyes and under my ribs, and it was Kessler, it was his hands, his weight and his cock that my body was screaming for and he was NOT HERE.
I was alone and I was so wet the slick was running down my wrist and pooling underneath me, I pressed a 4th finger in, stretched wide around my own knuckles, cried out so loud it echoed off the stone, but it still wasn’t enough.
“Fuck,” I said to the ceiling, my voice cracked and raw and gone.
“Fuck, please, I can’t keep—” I came on 4 fingers, my back arching off the mattress, cock pulsing untouched against my stomach, and the orgasm was violent and hollow at the same time, my body clenching in waves that should’ve brought relief but didn’t ’cause the heat was already rebuilding before the last contraction finished, the cycle feeding itself, climbing instead of breaking.
I pulled my fingers out and pressed my wet hand over my face and breathed, my whole body was trembling and the room smelled sweet and animal, and I wanted to scream, honestly, I wanted to just— Then I caught it through the stone walls, through the oak door, faint at first then stronger then unmistakable: cedar and warm skin, sharp electric cutting through the thick cloud of my own scent, landing at the back of my throat.
My cock was instantly hard again, my hole clenching on nothing, slick leaking out in a fresh warm rush, every cell in my body orienting toward the door.
“Kessler?” My voice came out wrecked.
Silence.
Then his breathing through the wood, heavy and unsteady.
“You’re not supposed to be here.” “I— I tried to stay away.
Drove halfway to Rotterdam and turned around.” “Dr.
Vos said you can’t be in the—” “I know what she said.” A pause, his breathing ragged.
“I can— I can smell you through the door, Nico.
I could smell you from the car park.
I could smell you from the fucking motorway.” I was on my back on soaked sheets with my cock hard against my stomach, my thighs slick and shaking and his scent through the door was making the heat spike so hard I could feel my temperature climbing, skin flushing from my chest to my ears.
I pressed my hand between my legs and bit back a moan ’cause he was right there, 6 inches of oak between us, and my body knew it; every nerve I had was pointing at that door.
“Are you…” He stopped, started again.
“How bad is it?” “Bad.” “Scale of one to—” “It’s past the scale, Damjan, I’ve come 4 times, and it won’t stop, I’m lying in a puddle of my own…
I can’t even…
it just keeps rebuilding.” My voice cracked, and I pressed my fist against my mouth ’cause I was NOT going to cry through a door at a man I’d known for 4 days.
Except I kinda was, my eyes burning and my body burning and the combination just…
too much.
“Nico.” His voice dropped, soft and wrecked and close to the wood.
“Listen to me.” “I’m listening.” “Put your hand between your legs.” My breath caught in my chest.
“Wh…What?” “You heard me.” I slid my hand down my stomach, between my thighs, fingers finding the slick and the heat and my hole still open and swollen, and when I touched myself, I whimpered and the sound carried ’cause I heard his breath hitch through the door.
“Tell me,” he said.
“I’m wet.
I’m so wet it’s on the sheets, on my thighs, everywhere, and I’m still open from before, I’m—” “How many fingers?” “4.
Before you got here.
4 and it wasn’t enough.” He made a sound, low and guttural, and I heard his forehead hit the door, a dull thud of bone on oak.
“Put them back in.” “Damjan—” “3 first.
Slow.” I pushed 3 fingers in and my back arched and a noise came out of me that was loud and raw and past shame, the wet sound of my fingers inside me obscene in the quiet room, and I could hear him breathing through the door, fast and ragged and wrecked.
“How does it feel?” “Full but not full enough, I need—” “I— I know what you need.” His voice was shaking, the control cracking in real time, 14 years of restraint splitting down the middle.
“Add the 4th.
Go slow.
And don’t hold back, Nico, I need to hear you.” I pushed the 4th finger in, stretched wide around my own knuckles, slick dripping down my wrist and forearm, and I moaned his name, his first name, and on the other side of the door he swore in Croatian and then in English and I started riding my hand, my hips rocking down, the wet sounds filling the room.
His breathing through the door matched to my rhythm, fast and ragged, and I could hear his palm flat against the wood, pressed against the barrier that separated us.
“I’m close,” I said, voice cracked and high and nothing left of it.
“I know.
I can hear it.
I can smell it changing.” A breath, shaking.
“Come for me, Nico.” “I can’t, I need you in here, I need—” “You can.
You’re gonna— you’re gonna come on your fingers, and I’m going to listen to every sound you make, and I’m right here, I’m not leaving this door.” I came with his name in my mouth and my hand buried inside myself, my hole clenching in waves around 4 fingers, cock pulsing against my stomach, slick and cum mixing on my skin, and the orgasm rolled through me in long devastating sets, each one feeding the next.
I was crying, I was actually crying, tears and sweat running down my temples into my hair while my body shook, clenched and released and through the door Damjan was breathing my name, “Nico, Nico, Nico,” low and steady, holding me through the wood with nothing but his voice.
When it stopped, I lay there gasping, hand still between my legs, body still trembling, the sheets ruined, the room thick with the scent of slick, sweat and salt.
On the other side of the door his breathing was wrecked and uneven and I could hear his pulse through the oak, fast and heavy.
“Are you still there?” My voice was so small I barely recognised it.
“I’m here.” Rough, destroyed.
“I’m not going anywhere.” “Damjan?” “Yeah?” “The heat’s not stopping.
The suppressants aren’t doing anything, it’s been hours, every wave is worse than the last, and I can’t keep doing this alone.” Silence through the door, just his breathing, the creak of his weight shifting against the wood.
“I know,” he said.
“I’m asking you to come in.” More silence, long enough that I counted my own heartbeats in it, and when he spoke his voice was thick and cracked and barely holding: “If I— if I come through this door, I can’t leave until it’s over.
You need to understand what that means.” “I understand.” “You don’t.
During a heat, with a compatible alpha, the bond will—” “I don’t care about the bond, I care about the fact that my body is tearing itself apart and you’re 6 inches away and I’m asking you, I’m choosing this, I’m—” The handle turned.