My boots echo down the corridor as I head toward the showers, drawn like iron to a lodestone. The door to the women's locker room looms, and I hesitate for a split second, hand on the knob, before twisting it open and slipping inside.
The air is already thick with steam, humidity clinging to my skin, and the sounds hit me first—muffled gasps, the wet slap of bodies, the rhythmic cascade of water that does nothing to drown out their passion. I bite my lip, hard enough to taste copper, curiosity, and envy twisting in my chest.
How do they look, tangled like that?
I edge closer, keeping to the shadows, peering through the haze at their silhouettes against the shower curtain.
They're entwined, shadows merging in a dance of urgency. Calder's form presses hers against the tile, their mouths fused in a kiss that devours, moans vibrating through the steam like thunder.
The water streams down, distorting the outlines but not the intensity—the way her head tilts back, exposing the line of her throat, the arch of her back as his hands roam.
I can't tear my gaze away, transfixed by the raw intimacy, the way they move as one. My hand drifts downward, almost of its own accord, palming the rigid length straining against my zipper.
I shouldn't—this is invasion, perversion—but the ache is unbearable, and I free myself, wrapping fingers around heated flesh and stroking slowly, matching their rhythm.
Imagination floods in, vivid and unbidden:me there with them, Wendolyn sandwiched between us, her vanilla-wildflower essence enveloping me as the spray cascades over our skin. I'd claim her from behind, my chest to her back, while Calder drives into her from the front, our thrusts synchronized, her cries echoing off the walls.
The fantasy sharpens, her body yielding, soft and fierce, as I bury myself in her heat. On the feed of my mind's eye, Calder's silhouette shifts—he hooks his arms under her legs, hoisting her up effortlessly, her thighs wrapping around his waist. He slamsinto her, thrusts powerful and unrelenting, each one eliciting whimpers that escalate into pleas: faster, deeper, more.
I pump my shaft in time, grip firm, breaths coming shallow and ragged.
Calder hooks her left knee in the crook of his elbow, changing angle, and she lets out a ragged sound that's half scream, half sob. I can almost taste the salt of her, the sweet tang of her surrender. It's a cruel trick of fate, having a front-row seat to this show and yet being nothing more than a ghost, an interloper, a shadow at the edge of their intimacy.
Still, I can't look away.
The more I watch, the more I want to be in it, in them, part of that wild, unrestrained animal heat.
Calder's voice cuts through the water's roar, low and filthy.
"You love being fucked like this, don't you? Pinned and taken, filled until you can't think."
She gasps her affirmation, and he presses.
"Wouldn't you crave it from both sides, hmm? Two Alphas claiming every inch of you?" Her response is a fervent "Fuck yes," and he demands, "Who? Who'd you want pounding that generous ass while I own this sweet cunt?"
She cries out my name seconds before shattering, her scream of Calder's name follows, reverberating as she unravels.
The admission hits like a backdraft, igniting my release.
I spill over my fist, pleasure crashing through me in waves, and it takes every ounce of control not to groan, not to betray my presence. Calder growls, his own climax thundering, and I retreat on silent feet, slipping out the door before discovery.
Outside, I sag against the wall, breaths heaving, my skin cooling on my hand as reality crashes back.
How the hell do I fit into this?
Their dynamic taunts me, a siren call I can't ignore, but insertion means vulnerability, means confronting the ashes of what Calder and I once had.
My boots scuff along the hallway, and each step is a study in mortification, slickness drying on my hand and heart pounding loud enough to echo off the old firehouse brick.
I keep my head down, pulse still thrumming with the ghost of climax, trying not to meet the curious gaze of the rookie nearing the kitchen. If he smells anything off, he doesn't let on, but the shame prickles beneath my skin anyway.
I duck past him, not trusting my voice, and slip into the sanctum of my office, shutting the door with a soft click that feels more like slamming the lid on a box of secrets.
Inside, the room's chill licks over my heated skin, a slap of reality after the humid carnality of the showers. I drag a hand through my hair, then glance at the mess on my fingers with a disgusted snort.
The supply closet yields a pack of industrial wipes—the kind meant to clean oil and soot rather than Alpha desperation—and I scrub myself raw, banishing the evidence with clinical precision.
The desk chair creaks beneath me as I collapse into it, brittle-cold, the whole station creaking and settling around me like a chorus of judgment.
