“You’ll get one sniff. That’s it. No lingering, no weirdness, and absolutely no overreacting. It’s for academic purposes.”
My own words echoed in my head, mocking me. I should’ve known better. God, I should’ve known. Give Maxwell Vaughn an inch, and he’d take a mile. And now here we were.
His mouth was on my neck—my neck, for God’s sake—and my brain was short-circuiting faster than I could process the sheer audacity of him. My thighs were shaking, my breath was coming in short, humiliating gasps, and I could feel his hands tightening on my waist like he couldn’t stand the idea of letting go.
This was not academic.
Nothing about this was academic.
Max had no idea that the spot on my neck he’d found was my scent gland. And the gland wasn’t just a conduit for scent; it was hypersensitive, wired with an unusually high density of nerve endings. When stimulated—whether by touch, pressure, or, in this case, Max’s tongue—it triggered a cascade of biochemical reactions. A flood of pleasure hormones were spilling like molten lava into my bloodstream, sending signals straight to my hypothalamus.
My entire body was betraying me, heat spreading in slow, suffocating waves from the place his lips were pressed. My scent gland—a deeply personal, entirely off-limits area—was under attack, and every nerve ending I possessed was screaming at me to do something.
To push him off.
To yell at him.
To—
Oh God. Was I slickening again?
Panic clawed at my chest as the answer hit me like a freight train. Yes. Yes, I was, and there was no stopping it. With every suction and lap his mouth made on my scent gland, the damp heat pooling low in my stomach was unmistakable, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.
Stupid instincts, I thought furiously. Stupid alpha.
I understood every step of the process, every chemical reaction and physiological response. I could recite the biology of scent intoxication from memory, list the exact neural pathways and hormonal triggers responsible for the way he was gripping me, holding me, breathing me in like I was oxygen.
He wasn’t thinking anymore and this was getting beyond dangeorus. We had to stop. I had to stop.
I tried to shove at his shoulders, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. He didn’t even budge. If anything, my resistance only seemed to make him more determined. He was practically making out with my scent gland, alternating hungry sucks with long licks. His lips moved against my neck, open and hot and devastatingly deliberate, and I felt the scrape of his teeth, the flick of his tongue—
I choked on a noise that I refused to believe was a moan. My hands against his shoulders faltered in their shove, fingers turning to grip him instead as I fought to hold on to reason.
Then, as if things couldn’t have gotten any worse, I heard it.
The faint tearing of adhesive as Max took his own scent patch off.
No no no no.
My chest clenched and my stomach dropped both at once as my head snapped up, and I stared at him in wide-eyed horror as his scent—woodsy and rich, like cedar shavings and dark chocolate—poured into the air, thick and heavy. I scrambled to grab the patch and slap it back onto his neck, but he’d latched on to my scent gland again and was drawing me into him, onto his lap and into that scent that was unfairly good. His scent.
I didn’t even realize I was pulling it into my lungs until it was too late, until I was helplessly gulping it from the air as it were water and I’d been thirsty for a thousand years. Warmth spread through my chest, my limbs, every inch of me, like I was being wrapped in something I couldn’t escape. It was suffocating. Intoxicating. My breath stuttered, catching in my throat as I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. My instincts wouldn’t let me.
I sniffed again, deeper this time, and a low groan slipped out of Max.
That sound—God, that sound—slammed into me, making my stomach twist and my thighs clench. My brain screamed at me to stop, to move, to think, but my body wasn’t listening. Heat prickled at the base of my neck, spreading down my spine, pooling low in my stomach until I felt humiliating dampness between my legs deepen.
I tried to move, tried to scramble away, but Max’s hands tightened on my hips, holding me in place. His grip was firm, strong, unrelenting. I froze, my breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts as I realized just how close we were. I was in his lap, my hands gripping his shoulders, both of us notched together.
Jesus Christ, how was this happening? How could I have been so stupid? I knew better, perhaps better than anyone, what a terrible idea this had been. Hell, I’d even said it aloud. Now I was absolutely going to have to report myself to the Council for this. Tutoring an idiot had somehow made me one, too.
“You’re so small,” he muttered, half to himself. His hands tightened, dragging me down against him as he groaned softly. “So perfect. Do you have any idea… what you’re doing to me?”
I knew exactly what was happening to Max. His higher cognitive functions were practically offline, overridden by the primal centers of his brain and his body was operating on instinct alone: scent, touch, want. He was intoxicated. Drunk on me.
I shook my head, panic flashing through me. “Max, stop—I’m—”
“You’re so wet.” His voice was low and rough and impossibly soft, tickling over the shell of my ear. “Smells like you’re getting ready for me.”
Getting ready for him? I wanted to slap him. I wanted to scream at him. But all I could do was cling to him as his words sank into my skin, hot and filthy and too much. I would’ve taken goofball can’t-focus-to-save-his-life Max back in a heartbeat, except I couldn’t because we were here and his scent was drowning me.
And then he brought his hands up to my face and kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. His hands cradled my face, his lips crashing against mine with a hunger that stole every rational thought from my head. I gasped, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against mine, hot and demanding and relentless.
For a moment, I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My body was frozen, caught between instinct and reason, but then he shifted closer, rocking his hips, and I felt the hard press of him against my slick-soaked thighs, and—
I kissed him back.
My hands fisted in his hoodie, pulling him closer, tighter, like I could sink into him and disappear. His groan vibrated against my mouth, rough and needy, and I felt myself shatter completely.
Suddenly we were kissing like we were starving. His scent burned through me, rich and heady, and I felt the warmth of it pooling low in my stomach, spreading through my veins like molten heat. Every nerve in my body felt like it was sparking, oversensitive and raw, and I couldn’t stop myself from leaning into him, from tilting my head and parting my lips to let his tongue slide against mine.
God. His tongue.
A broken sound escaped me, high-pitched and needy, and Max licked it up, his hands tightening on my waist. My skin burned where he touched me, the heat of his palms searing through the fabric of my sweater.
I should have pulled away. I should have shoved him back and done something, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop.
His hands slid higher, dragging the oversized fabric of my sweater up with them, and I felt the first brush of his fingers against my bare skin. My breath hitched, sharp and audible, and Max made a rumbling sound low in his throat, his grip firm and possessive as his palms flattened against my sides.
“God, Ainsley,” he rasped. “You feel so good.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Heat was spreading through me—too fast, too much. My skin felt tight, my body flushed and trembling, and my thighs clenched as the slick I’d been desperately trying to ignore began to worsen, soaking through my leggings in a humiliating flood.
My chest heaved as I dragged in a shallow breath, trying to push past the haze, but Max’s scent only hit me harder. My head swam, my body arching instinctively into his touch, and I felt the first sharp spike of arousal, so intense it was almost painful.
Something was wrong.
“Max,” I gasped against his mouth, but it came out soft and breathless, more plea than command.
He didn’t stop. His hands slid higher, brushing the curve of my ribs, and his lips moved to my neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. I shuddered violently, my body trembling as heat coiled tighter and tighter inside me, threatening to snap.
“Max,” I tried again, my voice cracking, but his tongue dragged over my scent gland, and I forgot how to speak.
His scent was thick now, stronger than before, spiking with his own arousal, and it sank into my bones, filling every inch of me until I couldn’t escape it. My instincts roared in response, and I felt another rush of slick between my thighs, hot and mortifying and impossible to ignore. My sweater felt like it was suffocating me, my leggings too tight. I was too hot, borderline sweaty, almost feverish. And I wanted.
I was going into heat.
The realization slammed into me, shaking me to my core. I’d never been in heat before—never thought I’d even have one—but there was no denying it now. My suppressants had officially failed. They couldn’t hold back the tidal wave of hormones coursing through my system, tearing through me with every frantic beat of my heart.
This was my worst fear. Why suppressants existed. Why scent patches were mandatory. To stop this from happening—this ancient, biological betrayal I’d spent years avoiding.
And Max—Max Vaughn—had managed to ruin all of it.
Stop it. Stop it.
I gritted my teeth, trying to shove the sensation down, but the heat wouldn’t be denied. It wasn’t just rising—it was bursting, ripping through me and leaving devastation in its wake.
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Spontaneous heats were rare. Exceptionally rare. The kind of thing you read about in textbooks but never expected to experience firsthand. Except now I was living it, my suppressants rendered useless by the idiot alpha gripping my waist, pressing open-mouthed kisses to my scent gland like he’d die if he stopped.
It made sense, biologically speaking. His scent was too strong, too direct, bypassing the chemical barrier my suppressants—and his, because alphas had ruts just like omegas had heeats—were supposed to provide. Suppressants weren’t designed for this level of stimulation. His scent, combined with his touch—hot and firm, his hands dragging up my bare skin like he owned me—it was no wonder my endocrine system had been overwhelmed.
And there was only one way to stop a heat once triggered.
I should’ve been freaking out, pushing him away, screaming at him—and a part of me was freaking out, but it was a small part and I could barely hear it over the roar in my ears as Max’s hands gripped my waist tighter, pulling me down against his lap until I felt the hard press of him through his jeans.
He was rocking up, grinding against the apex between my thighs, growling mindlessly into my ear. He had to smell it, had to feel it. My leggings were ruined. My brain screamed at me to run, but my body wouldn’t move. Couldn’t. We were caught in a feedback loop—my slick amplifying his pheromones, which amplified my slick, which amplified his pheromones.
“Max,” I gasped, my voice cracking. “You—oh my God—you don’t understand—”
Max’s lips found my scent gland again, his tongue dragging hot and deliberate over the sensitive skin, and my vision blurred as the last shred of reason fled my brain.
“You don’t get it,” I groaned out, “This is my heat. It’s—oh my God—it’s not normal. I—”
Another wave of want crashed through me, hotter and sharper than the last, and I clung to him instinctively, my nails digging into his hoodie. “I can’t—” My words broke into a shaky whimper, and I hated myself for it. “Max, in two minutes—”
My breath hitched as the ache inside me twisted, sharp and unbearable. “In two minutes, I’m going to be begging for your—”
The word caught in my throat, too horrifying to say, but it spilled out anyway, soft and trembling and utterly mortifying.
“Your knot.”
The second it left my lips, I felt it—the spike in my own body, sharp and dizzying, as if saying the word aloud had unlocked something I’d been desperately trying to suppress. Which, it had. But worse than that was him.
Max froze, his whole body going rigid beneath me, and for a single, terrible moment, I thought I’d finally snapped him out of it.
But then he groaned—low and wrecked and feral. His grip on my hips tightened, dragging me closer, and his forehead dropped to my shoulder, his breathing heavy and uneven. I caught a glimpse of his eyes and they weren’t the warm brown that I knew. They were hot, smoldering, burning my own retinas alive as he stared at me.
“I’ll take care of you,” he rasped, his voice deeper than I’d ever heard it. “I’ll make it better, baby. I’ll make you feel so fucking good.”
Oh, God, he was calling me baby now? My stomach flipped, the ache in my core twisting harder, and I gasped, my hands flying to his shoulders to push him back. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength—not with the heat fogging my brain, not with his scent eclipsing my senses, not with the way his voice sent a sharp pulse straight between my legs.
“Max,” I whimpered, trembling as his lips pressed to my neck again, hot and open and relentless. “You don’t understand—you can’t—”
“I do understand,” he growled, his teeth scraping lightly against my scent gland. “You need me. You need this. And I’m right here, baby. I’ve got you.”
I wanted to snap at him to not call me that. To not say those things. Instead, I shuddered, a soft, broken sound slipping from my throat, and I felt him groan again, his hands flexing against my hips.
“I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, his lips dragging lower. “I’ll give you everything you need. Just let me—”
Max stilled for a moment, his forehead pressed to my shoulder, and I thought—hoped—that he’d finally snapped out of it. His breath was heavy and uneven, his hands trembling where they gripped my waist like he was trying to keep himself tethered.
But then he growled.
It was low and guttural, a sound that rumbled through his chest and into me like a physical force. My body jerked in response, heat coiling tighter and sharper in my stomach as his scent spiked, growing heavier, thicker, suffocating. My instincts screamed at me to submit, to lean into him, to bare my neck and let him take whatever he wanted, but my rational mind was still clinging to the last shreds of reason.
This wasn’t just scent intoxication anymore. This was something worse. Something primal. Something I’d only read about in textbooks but never expected to witness firsthand.
His suppressants had failed, just like mine. The feedback loop—the amplifying cycle of pheromones and hormones—had triggered his rut in response to my heat. He was in rut and I was in heat.
My vision blurred as another wave of heat rolled through me, hotter than the last, and I felt the first tear slip down my cheek. There was only one way this could end now.
----------------------------------------
I was gone. Completely, utterly gone.
The heat had taken over, stripping me of reason, of logic, of everything that made me me. All that was left was this unbearable ache, this raw, primal need that pulsed through every inch of my body, leaving me trembling and slick and desperate.
Max in rut was so different than scent-drunk Max. His instincts were fully in control now, overriding logic, reason, and even self-preservation. His body was responding to mine, reacting to the slick pouring out of me, the heat rolling off my skin, the scent of my need thickening the air.
He moved with purpose, his hands strong and sure as he lifted me from his lap and laid me out on the bed, as if I weighed nothing. My breath hitched as my back hit the mattress, the cool sheets a sharp contrast to the fire burning under my skin. His hands gripped the waistband of my leggings, dragging them down slowly, torturously, until the cool air hit my thighs.
I should’ve stopped him. Should’ve protested. But I couldn’t. I had no rationality left, nothing in me besides yes yes take care of me fuck me. My legs trembled as he spread them, his broad hands gripping my thighs firmly, holding me open. I felt the slick pooling between them, hot and sticky, and my face burned with humiliation as he stared down at me.
“Fuck,” Max mumbled thickly. “Look at you.”
I couldn’t look at him. There was something embarrassing about this, about being bared to him. I squeezed my eyes shut, turning my head away as my chest heaved with shallow, panting breaths.
“You’re soaked,” he growled, his hands sliding higher on my thighs, spreading me wider. “So messy, baby. Gotta clean you up.”
I had half a second to be confused at his words, until I snapped my eyes open just in time to see him dip his head, his mouth pressing hot and open against the inside of my thigh. I jerked, a sharp cry tearing from my throat as his tongue dragged up the slick-coated skin, slow and deliberate.
I had said stop and no just as many times as I’d said his name by now and but now I didn’t mean any of it. I couldn’t have and he knew it, not with the way my thighs trembled, not with the way my hands shot down to grip the sheets, twisting them tight as his mouth worked its way higher.
If he stopped, I would die.
“Shh,” he muttered against my skin, the vibration sending another wave of heat coursing through me. “Gotta take care of you. Gotta make you feel good.”
His tongue flicked against the edge of where my slick was pooling, and I let out a sound I didn’t even recognize—high-pitched and desperate, half-whimper, half-plea. My back arched off the bed, my hands flying to his hair, tangling in the messy strands as I tried to pull him away—or closer. I didn’t know anymore.
“Max,” I gasped, my voice breaking. “You—you can’t—”
But he could. And he did.
His mouth moved higher, his tongue dragging through the slick with deliberate intent, licking it up like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He groaned low in his throat, his hands gripping my thighs tighter as he buried his face between them.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice muffled against my skin. “So sweet. So perfect. Can’t get enough.”
I was shaking now, trembling under his hands, his mouth, his words. The heat coiled tighter and tighter inside me, the ache pulsing harder, sharper, until I was writhing against the mattress, every inch of me desperate for relief.
And then his tongue found me.
A sharp, broken cry tore from my throat as he dragged it over the most intimate part of me, slow and firm, lapping at the slick that poured out faster, hotter. His hands flexed on my thighs, holding me open, keeping me steady as he worked his mouth against me, licking and sucking and groaning like he was drunk on the taste of me.
Nothing I’d ever experienced before in the realm of sex compared to this. My encounters with betas had been perfunctory, a little bit of stress relief. This was so much more. It was absolutely obscene, completely filthy, and I would’ve been mortified to death if I’d been in my right mind. But I wasn’t, thankfully. I was somewhere else entirely and all I could do was feel, lost in unfamiliar sensations as he took charge.
“Max,” I whimpered, my hands tugging at his hair, my body arching off the bed as another wave of heat crashed through me. “I—I can’t—oh my God—”
“You can,” he muttered, his breath hot against me. “Let me take care of you. Gonna make you feel so good.”
His tongue flicked against me again, faster this time, and I sobbed, my fingers tightening in his hair, my thighs quaking against his shoulders. The slick kept coming, spilling out in humiliating waves, but Max didn’t stop.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My body was on fire, every nerve alight, every thought drowned out by the unbearable heat and the overwhelming sensation of his mouth—hot and wet and relentless. It was everywhere—slow, deliberate, licking and sucking and pulling at my sanity as he devoured me like I was something sacred.
Every sound that slipped out of me was broken, gasping, desperate, and his hands only made it worse. They gripped my hips firmly, possessively, spreading me open wider as if he wanted me to feel how little control I had left.
It felt good. Too good. My breath hitched, my head tipping back as I clung to the sheets, my body arching into him against my will. Every swipe of his tongue sent another jolt of heat rushing through me, pooling low in my stomach and making the ache unbearable.
I hated it.
Hated how easily my body gave in, how it trembled under him, how the slick poured out faster with every filthy sound he made.
“You taste so good,” Max muttered, his lips brushing against the slick-drenched skin like it was something sacred. “Every fucking part of you. So good.”
I shuddered violently, my face burning as my mind scrambled for something, anything, to explain this away. My anatomy wasn’t like his. It wasn’t like anyone’s. It was redundant, messy, impractical—two entrances, two ways to ruin me completely.
And Max was exploring both.
His tongue dragged higher again, finding that other, smaller entrance, and my hips bucked, a broken sound escaping me before I could stop it. My thighs clenched around his head, trembling, but he groaned, his hands tightening as he dragged me closer, pulling me apart under him.
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. My head tipped back against the pillows, my chest heaving as he shifted between entrances like he belonged there, like he couldn’t get enough.
“You’re so sweet. So fucking perfect. Keep dripping for me.”
The filthy words hit me like a punch to the chest, sending another wave of slick pouring out of me, and I hated it. Hated the way my thighs clenched, the way my back arched involuntarily, the way my body begged for more even as my mind screamed at me to stop this before it went too far.
I was going to explode into pieces.
“Max,” I gasped, my hands fisting in his hair, tugging hard at the messy strands in a futile attempt to pull him away. “I—I can’t—it’s too much—”
He ignored me. I whimpered, sharp and desperate, as his tongue flicked against me again, finding the source of my slick and drinking it greedily. His lips closed around me, sucking hard—I felt him gulp—and I shattered.
My release hit me like a tidal wave, violent and overwhelming, ripping through my body with a force that left me seizing beneath him. A sharp, broken sob tore from my throat as my thighs clamped around his head, trembling uncontrollably, but Max didn’t stop.
“That’s it,” he groaned, his hands tightening on my hips to hold me steady as his tongue dragged over me again, slow and deliberate. “Yes. Yes, baby, just like that.”
My vision blurred as the pleasure hit me in wave after wave, my body jerking with every aftershock, every messy, wet sound of his mouth as he kept licking, drinking me in like he couldn’t get enough.
“God, look at you. You’re so beautiful like this. Coming all over my face, so wet, so sweet. Fuck, I want all of it. Every last drop.”
I let out a sharp, choked cry—half sob, half whimper—and Max growled in response, the sound low and feral, sending another shiver racing through me. The words wrecked me.
How the hell was he this filthy? How the hell did he even know how to say things like that? This wasn’t the Max Vaughn I knew—the goofy, insufferable jock who wouldn’t know subtlety if it hit him in the face.
This was alpha Max.
And worse than that—worse than the filthy, growled words and the unrelenting drag of his tongue—was the way it made me feel.
I hated how much I liked it.
My body trembled violently, oversensitive and raw, and I whimpered again, my hands still clutching at his hair as another wave of pleasure rippled through me, weaker but no less devastating.
“Good boy,” he murmured against me, sending another pulse of heat through me. “Give me more, baby. Let me taste you. Let me take care of you.”
My chest heaved, my breathing ragged, and I could feel the slick pouring out of me, soaking his face, dripping down his chin, but Max didn’t stop. His tongue dragged over me again, slow and steady, collecting everything I gave him with a growl that sounded like he was losing his mind.
“You’re mine, Ainsley,” he muttered, his hands flexing against my thighs as his mouth worked me over. “All this slick—mine. This body—mine. No one else gets to touch you like this.”
I gasped, my head tipping back, my mind blank and hazy, but some small, desperate part of me knew we were crossing a line.
“Max,” I choked out for what had to be the millionth time, as if his name was all I could say. My voice cracked, but he didn’t hear me—or didn’t care.
He was completely gone, lost in me, and as his tongue flicked against me one last time, dragging through the mess he’d made, I realized with a sinking certainty:
We were completely, utterly fucked.