Let him show me what being a power top actually means when he's not pinned and disadvantaged.
The shower curtain rustles—fabric moving aside to admit someone who's apparently decided that respecting boundaries is optional when an invitation has been clearly extended.
Calder.
My determined, predictable, absolutely motivated Alpha.
Coming to demonstrate exactly what happens when you tease someone beyond their self-control.
My smile widens, satisfaction evident even though he can't see my face from the current angle.
The situation is absolutely comical now because I know—with complete certainty born from observation and experience—that a certain firefighter is absolutely on his way to fuck me silly.
HEAT IN THE HAZE
Ilean against the scarred oak desk in the monitoring room, arms crossed tight over my chest, staring at the grainy feed from the gym's security camera like it's some forbidden reel I shouldn't indulge in.
The screen flickers with that low-res haze, but it's clear enough—clear enough to capture every taut muscle, every bead of perspiration, every charged glance between them.
Calder has her pinned now, his broader frame eclipsing hers on the mat, and the way Wendolyn's chest rises and falls, defiant even in submission, stirs something primal in my gut that I refuse to name yet.
Their eyes lock, heat simmering in the air between them, and then he dips his head, claiming her mouth with a kiss that's gentle, almost reverent, like he's savoring a victory he didn't fully earn.
They break apart, words tumbling out in that playful spar of theirs, though the audio pickup is too faint to catch the exact barbs. Calder's proving whatever point he thinks he's got, his posture all smug dominance, but Wendolyn—she's fire incarnate.
She twists beneath him, a flash of movement, and aims a vicious kick toward his groin that has him scrambling off her like he's dodging a live grenade. He leaps to his feet, hands instinctively guarding his vulnerable spots, and I can't suppress the low chuckle that rumbles in my throat. Damn, she's ruthless.
They exchange more words, the camera's distance muting them to murmurs, but her stance screams unyielding confidence, that spine-straight poise she wields like a weapon. It's the kind of assurance that would intimidate lesser men, but for me? It ignites a blaze I can't extinguish, no matter how hard I clench my jaw.
I've been glued to this feed for the entire session, silent as a shadow, letting the scene unfold without interruption. Thirty minutes of them grappling, testing limits, her technique dismantling his brute force time and again—it's run me ragged, arousal coiling tight in my veins like a fuse burning low.
My cock strains against the confines of my trousers, hardened to the point of discomfort, and I shift my weight, trying to alleviate the pressure without giving in to the urge to touch. This isn't me; I've never been drawn to an Omega like this, never felt that pull warp my thoughts into something carnal and unrelenting.
Alphas, sure—Calder's always been my weakness, his commanding presence a magnet I couldn't resist back then.But Wendolyn? She's rewritten the script, her scent, her fire, infiltrating my defenses until I'm here, voyeur to their dance, horny and conflicted without a single deliberate effort on her part.
She bends down then, deliberate and unhurried, retrieving a hair tie from the mat.
Even through the pixelated distance, the thin fabric of her leggings clings transparently, highlighting every curve, every damp patch where sweat—or something more intimate—hassoaked through. That glimmer catches the light, a blatant tease, and my breath hitches, pulse thundering in my ears.
Fuck.
I grip the desk's edge, knuckles whitening, fighting the surge of heat that demands I act, that I storm down there and insert myself into whatever game's afoot. But I hold back, jaw locked, reminding myself that attraction to her is new territory, a complication I didn't ask for.
She's an Omega, damn it, and yet here I am, transfixed, my body betraying every wall I've built.
Wendolyn straightens, sauntering toward the renovated shower room we built just for her—our concession to her comfort in this testosterone-fueled den.
Calder stands there, frozen like a hound scenting prey, his internal war plain on his face. Distress wars with desire, but desire wins; he pivots, striding after her with purpose that screams he's ensnared. Right into her trap.
She's orchestrated this, the clever minx, knowing exactly how to lure him, how to bend him to her will.God, I admire that—the way she commands without force, draws us in like moths to her flame.
No wonder Calder's fallen; no wonder Bear and Silas orbit her with such devotion.
And me?
I'm teetering on the edge, trying to ignore the gravitational pull, but it's futile. She's why we're coalescing, why this pack feels less like a reluctant alliance and more like destiny.
I push away from the desk, the chair scraping against the concrete floor with a harsh grind that mirrors my turmoil.
