Page 9 of His Best Friend’s Heat

Micah

I wake to the sensation of being watched.

For a disorienting moment, I can't remember where I am. The sheets beneath me aren't mine. The scent surrounding me is familiar but stronger than usual. And my body—God, my body feels weightless and feverish at the same time.

Then I open my eyes and see Nick.

He's propped up on one elbow beside me, his dark hair mussed from sleep, those blue eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

The events of yesterday come rushing back in vivid detail—the unexpected heat, the mortifying confession, Nick's hands on my body, inside me, his knot. ..

And then last night. The way we stared at each other with everything unsaid hanging between us. How I saw recognition in his eyes. He knew what I wasn't saying, what I felt, but couldn't acknowledge it. The moment when all my feelings were laid bare in a look, and his inability to respond in kind.

The memory settles like a stone in my chest. I shift slightly, putting distance between us on the mattress—not much, but enough that Nick notices. His expression tightens.

"Morning," he says, his voice morning-rough in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.

"How long have you been awake?" I ask, because it's safer than the questions I really want to ask. Like whether he's had time to regret everything. Whether he's figured out how to let me down easy.

"A while." His hand hovers near my face, like he wants to touch me but isn't sure if he should. "Micah, about last night—"

"We don't need to talk about it," I interrupt quickly. "I understand."

Nick's expression falters. "You understand what?"

"That the heat makes everything intense. Emotional. Things get said without words that maybe shouldn't be." The words taste like ash, but they're safer than the truth. Safer than admitting how much his inability to respond cut me.

"Micah, that's not—" He reaches for me, but stops when I unconsciously flinch away from his touch. The hurt that flashes across his face is almost enough to make me take it back. Almost.

"How are you feeling?" he asks instead, his voice carefully gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. He's being so careful with me now, like I might break.

Physically, I'm in the eye of the storm—a brief reprieve between heat waves that I know from experience won't last long. Emotionally, I'm a mess of hurt and embarrassment and the desperate need to protect what's left of my dignity.

"Better," I say, because it's easier than the truth. "The fever's down for now."

Nick nods, but his eyes never leave my face, like he's searching for something. Forgiveness, maybe. Or proof that I really am okay with his inability to love me back.

"You were restless in your sleep," he says finally. "I was worried."

Oh God. I was probably moaning in my sleep, my body already gearing up for the next wave. Mortifying.

"Sorry about that," I mutter, unable to meet his gaze. "Heat dreams."

"Don't apologize." His voice is soft, almost pleading. "You don't have to apologize for anything, Micah."

But I do. I have to apologize for loving him when he can't love me back. For making this complicated when it should be simple. For being the kind of omega who falls for his straight best friend and then has a breakdown heat that forces them into this impossible situation.

Before I can figure out what to say, my body makes the decision for me.

A wave of heat rolls through me, more intense than yesterday's initial symptoms. My skin flushes instantly, sweat breaking out across my body.

The empty ache inside me returns with a vengeance, and I can't help the small whimper that escapes my lips.

"Micah?" Nick's voice sharpens with concern, and relief floods his features—like he's grateful to have something concrete to focus on instead of the emotional landmine between us. "Is it starting again?"

I nod, unable to form words as another pulse of heat washes through me.

This is different from yesterday—stronger, more focused.

My previous heats were always manageable, the discomfort dulled by suppressants.

This is raw, primal, my body demanding satisfaction in a way I can't ignore or rationalize away.

"What do you need?" Nick asks, his voice dropping lower, taking on that alpha resonance that makes my omega instincts stand at attention. But there's desperation in his tone now, like he needs to help me, needs to do something right.

What I need is him. His hands, his mouth, his cock. His knot filling the emptiness inside me. The thought should embarrass me, but I'm beyond embarrassment now.

"You," I gasp, reaching for him. "Please, Nick. I need you."

He doesn't hesitate this time, but there's something almost frantic in the way he moves.

In one fluid motion, he's over me, his body a solid weight that grounds me even as the heat threatens to sweep me away.

His scent envelops me—alpha, protective, aroused—and my body responds with a fresh wave of slick.

"I've got you," he murmurs, his lips finding my neck, pressing kisses there like an apology. "I'm going to take care of you. I promise."

There's intensity in his voice that wasn't there yesterday, like he's trying to prove something. To me or to himself, I'm not sure.

I nod, already beyond words as his hands begin to explore my body.

He's more focused now, more determined, like he's already mapped my responses and knows exactly what I need.

His mouth travels down my chest, leaving a trail of heat that has nothing to do with my fever.

When he takes my nipple between his teeth, I arch off the bed with a cry.

"So responsive," he murmurs against my skin, and there's wonder in his voice. "So perfect."

The praise sends warmth through me that has nothing to do with heat, and I hate how much I want to hear more. How much I want him to mean it beyond just the physical.

I want to respond with wit, to show I'm still me despite the heat turning my brain to mush, but then his hand slides between my legs and coherent thought becomes impossible.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, his fingers exploring me with careful precision. "Is this okay? Tell me this is okay."

There's desperation in the question, like he needs my permission for more than just touch.

"Yes," I manage, my hips pushing into his touch. "More. Please, Nick."

He obliges immediately, like my pleasure is the most important thing in the world to him. His fingers work inside me while his thumb finds my cock. Each touch is precise, focused, like he's memorizing what makes me gasp.

But it's not enough—not what my body really wants.

"Inside," I gasp, clutching at his shoulders. "I need you inside me."

Nick's eyes meet mine, and what I see there makes my breath catch. Not just desire, but hunger that looks like desperation. Like he needs this as much as I do, but for different reasons.

He positions himself between my thighs with careful reverence, like I'm something precious. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, and despite the urgency of my heat, he takes his time, pushing in slowly, watching my face.

There isn't any discomfort. My body welcomes him like it was made for this—for him. Being filled by him feels like coming home and falling apart at the same time.

"Micah?" Nick freezes, concern replacing desire. "Are you okay?"

I realize I'm crying—not from pain but from the overwhelming rightness of it. How can something feel so perfect when everything else is so complicated?

"Don't stop," I whisper. "Please don't stop."

He studies my face for a moment longer, then begins to move. Slow, deliberate strokes that feel less like fucking and more like worship. My body responds immediately, heat symptoms receding under waves of building pleasure.

"You feel incredible," Nick murmurs, his forehead pressed against mine. "This is beyond anything I could have imagined..."

He trails off, but I hear what he's not saying. That this is different. That I'm different. But different enough to love? That's the question he can't answer.

His words send fresh heat through me, but it's pleasure now, not fever. I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper, and he groans in response.

"Harder," I urge, my nails digging into his back. "Please, Nick."

He complies immediately, like denying me anything is physically impossible. His hips snap forward with new urgency, and each thrust hits my prostate now, making stars explode behind my eyelids.

"There," I gasp against his mouth. "Right there."

Nick adjusts his angle with laser focus, hitting that spot with every stroke. He's so attentive, so determined to make this good for me, and it breaks my heart a little. Because this isn't love—this is guilt. This is him trying to give me pleasure because he can't give me what I really want.

I'm louder than I've ever been during sex, making sounds I didn't know I was capable of, but I can't bring myself to care. Pleasure builds inside me like a storm, threatening to sweep away everything that isn't Nick and this moment.

Without warning, Nick slows, then stops completely. For a terrifying moment, I think he's changed his mind, that the reality of what we're doing has hit him. But then he's pulling out carefully, his hands gentle on my hips.

"Turn over," he says softly, and there's vulnerability in his words. "I want...can I...?"

He can't finish the sentence, but I understand. He wants to try something different, wants to give me more. And maybe, if I'm honest, he wants to hide his face while he does it.

I comply, rolling onto my stomach, letting him position me how he wants. It feels like trust—dangerous trust that I shouldn't be giving someone who can't love me back.

"So beautiful," Nick breathes, his hands smoothing over my back, my ass. "Micah, you're so fucking beautiful."