Page 32 of Puck Your Friend

I doubt they would be so chill if they knew how goddamn horny I am right now.

A bitter tang creeps up the back of my throat. I swallow hard and slip off the stool. “I’m just gonna run to the restroom real quick.”

I head to the bathroom that’s wedged between a bookcase and the stairs. The door closes with a soft click. I lock it. My fingers slip into the front pocket of my jeans, where I tucked the case back at the rink. That was maybe ninety minutes ago, give or take. It shouldn’t be fading already. Unless this batch is weaker than it should be, or cut with something. The thought makes my gut twist tighter.

The silver case catches the soft light from the vanity bulbs, gleaming like something too clean for what it’s used for.

I open it.

Four days ago, I bought fourteen. That many used to last two weeks. Now I’m staring down my last three and pretending I don’t already know I’ll burn through them before the weekend’s done.

Pressure builds in my clit. I squeeze my thighs together again, desperate for relief. It’s not just the failing suppressant. It’s them. Their scent, voices, and skin brushing mine; my body wants to fight for what I was made for now that it knows my Alphas are around.

I should walk out of here before this gets worse.

But I don’t want to go.

Plucking the pill free, I press it to my tongue and swallow dry.

The tablet hits the roof of my mouth, bitter and metallic. I grip the counter hard as my stomach threatens to reject the pill. The urgency doesn’t fade, just presses lower, like a weight I can’t shake.

I turn on the faucet and let the water run cold before cupping it in my hands. It shocks my skin as I splash it over my cheeks, then press a few drops to the base of my throat, where the collar of my turtleneck ends. My heart stutters as I reach under the hem of my shirt into my bra for the travel-size neutralizer I tucked there at the rink.

One hit to each wrist, another at the sides of my neck. Then I unbutton my jeans and wiggle them halfway down, tugging my underwear with them.

I spray along the inside of my thighs and over my dripping folds. The suppressant is supposed to kill libido. It used to, until recently.

The neutralizer settles fast with a blank scent; none of the metallic tang the over-the-counter sprays always give off. The kind that is a dead giveaway to Alphas.

I pull my jeans and underwear back up, wincing as the fabric drags across my swollen folds. The friction sends a pulse straight through my clit, and my knees nearly give. I brace against the sink, hoping the pill kicks in fast.

I rinse my mouth and slide the bottle back into my bra.

When I return to the kitchen, the food’s already unpacked across the island, steam curling off the open boxes. Logan scoops a tangle of noodles onto his plate.

Jace unwraps a garlic bread sub and takes a bite.

Ford grabs napkins then snags a wing.

Wes settles into a chair, tossing a dumpling onto his plate with a flick of his chopsticks and a satisfied grunt.

No one notices me at first.

Good.

I slide onto the stool. My drink waits where I left it, condensation forming a ring on the wood. I pick it up.

I take a gulp. Maybe it will help kill this arousal. I’ve heard dudes get limp dick from whiskey.Could it be the same thing for clits and tequila?Let’s hope so.

Ford tears open a sweet and sour sauce packet with his teeth and squeezes it onto a drum pinched between his fingers.

The tangy aroma cuts through the heavier scents in the air. I wish my sense of smell didn’t mess with my head like this. I swear every little thing lately sets me off.

Jace unwraps one of the garlic bread meatball subs, places it on a plate alongside dumplings, noodles, and wings; then hands it across the island to me.

My cheeks tingle with warmth. “Oh, you didn’t have to make me a plate, but thank you.”

His fingers brush over my knuckles as I accept it. A jolt shoots through my hand and goosebumps spread up my arm. I shiver.