Page 36 of Puck Your Charity

I ignore her. I keep typing. I plan to sit in this booth and use their free internet until they drag me out the front door. The grind demands every ounce of my focus, and I refuse to let a little side-eye break my resolve.

The neon sign of the 24-hour grocery store buzzes in the dark.

I park my sedan under a flickering streetlamp in the far corner of the lot. The glow provides enough visibility to deter creeps, but the distance keeps me hidden from the main flow of shoppers.

I kill the engine.

Reaching over, I push the master lock button. All four doors secure with a satisfying thud.

The temperature outside hovers near freezing. The cold seeps through the glass windows and turns the cabin into an icebox. I leave my thick winter coat on and pull the cheap fleece blanket up to my chin.

I curl into a tight ball on the backseat. I rest my head against a bundled-up sweater.

My stomach growls, a hollow and relentless ache. I ate a stale protein bar for dinner. Exhaustion drags at my eyelids, but my brain refuses to shut down. The stress of the rejections and the freezing air keeps my nerves on a razor's edge.

A low, persistent throb begins deep in my pelvis. A strange flush washes over my skin, clashing with the freezing air in the car. I kick the fleece blanket off my legs.

My breathing turns jagged. I pant into the dark cabin.

The suppressants wage a losing battle in my bloodstream. The drugs mask the main fever, but the stress and the cold trigger a hormonal spike. My biology ignores my practical mindset. It stages a full rebellion.

A thick flood of slick coats my underwear. The wetness seeps through the cotton and dampens the seams of my jeans.

"No." I whisper the word, gripping the fabric of my coat. "Not now."

My skin turns hypersensitive. The rough denim rubbing against my thighs feels like sandpaper. The tag on the back of my shirt burns against my neck. Every shift of my body sends a jolt of raw, agonizing electricity straight to my swollen clit.

I writhe on the backseat and squeeze my thighs together, chasing the friction.

The phantom scents invade the freezing car.

My nose catches the crisp ozone of a thunderstorm. The rich depth of citrus mixes with the spicy bite of crushed black pepper. The aroma of the custom pack blend fills my lungs, drowning out the smell of stale coffee and cold plastic.

My mind conjures Finn.

I picture his massive shoulders and his messy auburn hair. I imagine his large hands gripping my hips. I crave the weight of his chest pressing me down into the backseat. My body begs for his thick knot to stretch me open and fill the desperate void throbbing inside my core.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes.

I hate this. I hate feeling like a hostage to my anatomy. I hate wanting the exact men who destroyed my career.

I shove my hand down my pants. My icy fingersslide past the denim and dive past the soaked cotton of my underwear.

A ragged moan tears from my throat.

I mash my fingers against my slick, swollen clit. I rub the sensitive bundle of nerves with frantic, desperate speed. The friction sends a spike of pleasure through my hazy brain, but it lacks the ruthless pressure I crave.

My body rejects the solo attempt. It screams for an Alpha. It demands teeth scraping across my collarbone and raw force taking control.

I pump two fingers deep inside my dripping pussy. The slick makes a wet, obscene sound in the quiet car. I fuck my own hand, my hips bucking upward off the worn upholstery.

"Finn." I sob his name into the dark.

The humiliation burns my throat. I cry in pure frustration. I feel pathetic. I lie in the backseat of a freezing car in a grocery store parking lot.

Tension coils tight in my stomach. The pleasure builds, riding the edge of a climax. I grind my hand against my core, chasing the release to make the agonizing pressure stop.

A bright beam of light sweeps across the windshield.