4. Lots of Touching 🍋
“You’ll have fun, just find a fuck buddy!” As sweet and kind as Allium was, there was no skirting around an Omega’s need to satisfy their heats.
Betas were dubbed “fuck buddies” and were a win-win for both wolf tiers—both got sex, no one got pregnant. As far as Seff knew, even with how often her age group needed to sate themselves, not many long-term relationships were formed. You met up, you fucked, and you left. And with wolves’ additional need to be in a pack, being a species that depended on closeness, and well…there was plenty of closeness.
Another dorm was converted into a multipurpose building. The first floor was office space, but the second and third floors came to be known as the “Frisk Floors.” There was plenty of frisking—some drugs, not by police. Just fuck buddy touching.
Allium was swallowed by the throng of jostling bodies, nothing but sweat and skin and muscle and white hair. Bass pounded from the DJ booth, strobing lights colored the entire room in blue, purple, red, gold, green lights. Seff clutched her plastic cup of generic beer and tried not to breathe in the perfume, musk, alcohol, or vomit too deeply. She’d been to dozens of Frisk parties, but they were never really her style. Too much chaos. Too much frisking.
And too much sloppy kissing. And thrusting. Every surface supported a female grinding against a male, two females with hands sliding up underneath each other’s shirts, two males with hands down pants. Sweat glistened on the skin like reflective surfaces. The throbbing bass didn’t mask the moans or dirty talk. But Seff didn’t mind the groping too much. A wayward hand squeezing her ass or a quick, teasing boob-grab. It was normal. Werewolves liked physical touch—a lot. In this she enjoyed.
She glimpsed Allium on a couch between a gap in the sea of bodies, hers encompassing a male, her hand down his waistband as she aggressively made out with him, practically sucking in his face. But from his side profile, he was just as much in bliss.
Hands gripped her hips and yanked her flush against a muscular body. A stubbly cheek pressed to hers, sharp teeth nibbling at her earlobe. She shivered and her heartbeat picked up. But her drink spilled, and she growled, “You owe me another drink, knothead.”
“After all these years, I never pegged you to be so foul-mouthed, Seff.”
She whirled at the voice. “Hawthorn! You’re not supposed to be here.”
The hulking male was an Alpha, which meant he was capable of impregnating any Omega. There were plenty of pups running around from “underage” Omegas out of wedlock or even mates—sometimes unwanted pregnancies, and often from Frisk parties. Alphas could be reported or kicked out for crashing the parties.
But Hawthorn Henbane was her frequent fuck buddy nonetheless. That was the one upside of her unheard-of no-heat disorder that Seff told no one but Allium. And Hawthorn, the empty-headed runt as she referred to him as playfully, never asked. His beauty swayed her annoyance. White hair, green eyes, nothing new, but by Magnolia standards, he was godlike. His smirk alone made Seff wish she could have just one heat.
“You want me here, don’t you?” he drawled, smiling that damn smile, running his tongue over his teeth. Seff swallowed hard. “Standing alone all depressed while Allium devours that guy?”
Neither of them had to yell over the music, so enhanced was their werewolf hearing, so they had no problem hearing Seff say, “Wanna devour me?”
Hunger lit the kaleidoscope of greens in his eyes. As Seff passed her cup into the nearest wolf’s hand, much to their dismay, Hawthorn’s hands were already greedily exploring her body. He was huge, and she much smaller, so he had to curve his spine toward her for his mouth to mash against hers. Their scents slammed each other’s noses and Seff was immediately dizzy with his. Her eyelids fluttered and a groan of pleasure already escaped her throat.
Hawthorn huffed a laugh against her lips, hands sliding up her back, teasing the clasp of her bra. “Still that easy to get you riled up?”
“Just take me,” she gasped.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Seff gasped again when he suddenly hoisted her up; she locked her legs around his waist, his hands gripping her ass, mouths still sloppy, but tongues exploring as if not already very familiar. First he slammed her back against the nearest wall to Seff’s conflicting annoyance and enjoyment at the dull pain. Then they slipped into an empty room and Hawthorn kicked the door closed behind him.
The most treasured part of the Frisk Floors was the multitude of rooms devoid of anything but a large king-sized bed. They weren’t comfortable, much less sanitary, but they were perfect for frenzied fucking.
But Alphas liked rough. Still holding Seff, he yanked the thick comforter off the bed and threw it on the floor, nearly dropping Seff onto her back. She grunted, but Hawthorn was already atop her with arms and legs on either side of her, his mouth at her shoulder where her scent gland was. For Alphas and Omegas, scents of the opposite attract, but once the other pressed their faces to where they were located, it was like a cat breathing in catnip—they went witless.
With heavy panting, messy limbs, and the casual flexing of muscle, clothes were ripped to shreds. Seff arched her back to allow Hawthorn to begin a trail of teeth-skimming kisses down to her breasts, one belonging to his tongue, the other to be palmed and massaged. Her hands mussed his hair, fingers tugging, her body not in a heat cycle, but she burned. She was pulsing and she bucked her hips toward his in a voiceless plea. With a growl, he obliged. They moved together in the rhythmic pumping, matching their hedonic noises, drowsy and alive with each other’s scents, their comfort with the familiar guiding them without error. Every time felt new somehow and Seff’s chest swelled with sudden emotion.
Hawthorn knew her well enough to sense the sudden change, to notice her squeak was, yes, out of pleasure, but something else. He slowed his movements; she felt his knot move inside her, but she pushed the pain aside in trade for her mental pain. “What’s wrong?” he asked in a murmur, lifting his head from where it was buried in her neck.
Tears sprang to Seff’s eyes at the gentleness of his voice. She squeezed them shut and tried to focus on every point of skin contact of his body against—and in—hers. He was warm and sweaty and whenever they were together he had to have his arm slung around her waist and glared at anyone who even glanced her way. He liked to nuzzle her neck when she went over to his house and cradle her in his lap and whisper sweet nothings. His touch made her feel tight and…loved. Allium made her feel like she had a home, but Hawthorn felt like home.
Next week, she might not be able to see him ever again.
“Hey…”
She swallowed the thickness in her throat down and opened her eyes, sticking a smile on her face. Seff was not a weepy wolf, and she wouldn’t be seen as the little orphan who cowered behind those who pitied her. “I’m okay! I just feel…” She moaned, not entirely faked, at Hawthorn’s next motion, achingly slow. “Good. Keep going.”
He didn’t look wholly convinced but didn’t pursue. But he did look like he had something to say. Instead, he nodded and picked up the pace just a little, pressing his weight down on her, pressing close to calm her. It worked, and Seff lost herself in emotion.
Then Hawthorn said, “Seff, I’m in love with you.”
Outside the door, the music stopped and a female shouted, “Oh, disgusting! All of you, go home right now! Get out—oh, break it up!”
Hawthorn and Seff froze when the handle jiggled, whipping their heads up when the door flung open and revealed the Alpha Hyacinth Ivan’s second wife, Gardenia. She read back, wrinkling her nose, shielding her eyes. “Put your damn clothes on,” she barked.