Heatwave

The heatwave I mentioned earlier slammed into you like a freight train, and your body responded in an instant. Invisible hands danced across your skin, caressing you as if you were wearing nothing at all. You sucked in a shaky breath, desperately trying to soothe your raging hormones as you approached the building for your very first interview.

You glance over your shoulder, catching the unmistakable scent of a Lycan werewolf. But there’s no one there. Paranoia or instinct? Either way, you quicken your pace, silently cursing the high heels you chose to wear. Actually, you curse your entire decision to be outside. The air is thick with the scent of Lycans—too many, too close.

Finally, you reach the glass-paneled building. You fumble with the door, heart racing as if safety waits just beyond it. The polished handle refuses to cooperate, and panic tightens its grip. You glance back again. You’re being followed. You know it.

The doorman eyes you oddly, probably wondering why you’re flushed and frantic. Of course, the heatwave doesn't affect him—he’s just a regular human. He presses the crossbar and opens the door with a neutral expression.

“Thank you,” you gasp, barely getting the words out before the Lycans you smelled catch up.

“Don’t let them in!” you plead, panic lacing your voice.

The doorman stiffens as his eyes scan the pair of rugged men. Without hesitation, he locks the door.

“Should I call the police? Are you in trouble?” he asks, his voice uncertain.

“I’m here for an interview,” you manage, turning your back on the Lycans who are now watching you like prey. They’re not rogues—you know every one of them. Some of them you even grew up with. One of them used to be your best friend. But everything changed the day you shifted for the first time.

The truth? Your body aches for them. Every inch of you is begging to be taken, to surrender. But you’ve denied yourself that pleasure—clinging stubbornly to your virginity, saving it for a fated partner who is likely screwing someone else right now.

“Are you okay?” a woman’s voice snaps you out of your spiraling thoughts. She waves her hand in front of your face, fingers clicking.

Your eyes shoot up to meet hers, pupils wide and wild.

“It’s your turn,” she says, clearly unimpressed, and turns back toward the office.

Take it from me—if you want to stay a virgin, run the other way.

But of course, you won’t listen. Of course, you get up and walk into that office, where a Lycan sits, silently praying that whoever’s scent has been haunting him would have the sense to leave.

You introduce yourself to him and his assistant, a woman who thankfully is human. You don’t offer your hand, and neither does he. At least one of you understands the danger.

You watch as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, fighting the same war raging inside you.

“Would you like a glass of water, sir?” the assistant asks, concerned.

“Yes, please,” he croaks, his voice thick with restraint, eyes just as wide as yours.

“Actually, no,” he blurts out suddenly, realizing that the moment she’s gone, the two of you will tear each other apart.

The assistant hesitates, confused, halfway out of her chair.

“I’ll get it anyway,” she insists and leaves, ignoring his silent plea for her to stay.

You swallow hard and inch your chair farther away from him.

“I didn’t catch your name,” you say.

Because he never gave it, silly.

“Horny—I mean Henry. Henry Bass,” he stammers. Under normal circumstances, you’d laugh. But these are far from normal circumstances.

“Shall we begin?” he asks hoarsely, reaching for his assistant’s clipboard and pen. But the moment he moves, his scent hits you full force.

Your tailored jacket hits the floor.

The next thing you know, your lips crash against his in a kiss so passionate, so desperate, it sets your soul ablaze. He lifts you onto the desk with your skirt bunched at your waist. Everything happens too fast.

The sound of shattering glass and a splash of water snaps him out of it. He jerks away, just in time.

You leap off the desk and bolt for the door, yanking your pencil skirt back into place. You don’t even spare the assistant a glance.

Behind you, you hear his chair crash over and the assistant’s horrified scream. He’s coming for you—and he will have you. He’s locked onto you like a bloodhound, and there’s no escape.

Even as you flee, your body screams for him. You crave him—his hands, his mouth, everything. Your wet, untouched pussy throbs with need.

You make a break for the front doors—only to skid to a halt as the Lycans from earlier come into view.

Stop denying yourself, foolish girl. Let them take you. You’ll love it, I promise. Who’s to say you even have a fated mate?

You spin around. Henry Bass is closing in fast, eyes blazing.

You glance around frantically. Where to?

“The stairs!” he shouts, fighting just as hard against nature’s cruel joke.

You dart toward the emergency door marked with the stair symbol. The stairs wind upward. You don’t know where they’ll lead, but you fly up them two—three—steps at a time.

The door slams open behind you. He’s on your heels, but you don’t dare stop.

The staircase twists in sharp turns until finally—gasping—you shove open a door. The heat crashes over your flushed skin. The sun blinds you.

You slam the door shut behind you and twist the lock. His body crashes into it a second later.

You slide to the floor, back pressed to the door, heart hammering. You can hear him breathing. Deep, guttural. You hear him moan.

And then... you hear him pleasuring himself.

Hot, frustrated tears blur your vision. You’re shaking. Aching.

You get up and reach for the door handle.

Your body doesn’t care about logic. It only wants Henry Bass—to be taken hard and carelessly.

And you know once that door opens...

There’s no going back.