Page 13 of Puck Your Charity

Chapter 5

Harsh fluorescent lights burn through my closed eyelids. Waking up feels like dragging myself out of a vat of boiling water. The hospital isolation room offers nothing but sterile white walls, a single metal tray table, and a locked security door.

My skin burns. A brutal fever cooks my brain from the inside out. I kick the thin, scratchy hospital blanket off my legs, gasping for air in the stuffy room.

A slick, wet mess coats my bare thighs.

The phantom scent of a thunderstorm invades the small space.Finn.His name pulses in time with the agonizing throb between my legs. The memory of his arms wrapping around my waist is branded into my skin. The crisp ozone and citrus scent of hispack clings to the back of my throat, refusing to fade no matter how many times I swallow.

My mind races, trying to piece together the last few hours. I remember standing in the hallway outside the staff lounge and the exact second Finn rounded the corner; his scent crashed into my system. My knees gave out. He caught me. The feeling of his broad chest against my face felt like a drug. Then Brenda shouted, the security guards ripped him away, and they dragged me into this locked room.

Rational thoughts dissolve into a primal, desperate need. My body screams for an Alpha. It demands a real cock to stretch my dripping pussy and a knot to fill the aching void inside my pelvis.

I writhe on the narrow mattress. The cheap cotton hospital gown twists around my waist, trapping the heat against my flushed skin. I reach down and yank the hem up to my ribs. The cool air of the isolation room hits my soaked center, sending a violent shiver down to my toes.

I shove my hand down between my legs. My fingers dive straight into the slick. My clit swells, aching for rough friction.

Pressing two fingers deep inside my wet pussy, a raw, ragged moan tears out of my throat. The sheer volume of wetness shocks me. I never get this wet. I built my life on balanced, boring hormones. This ferocious, unyielding arousal feels like an alien invasion.

I pump my fingers in and out. I chase the phantom memory of Finn pinning me down. I imagine his thick fingers spreading me open. I picture his mouth biting down hard on my neck while he thrusts into me.

The fantasy throws gasoline on the fire.

Grinding my hips upward, I mash the heel of my hand against my throbbing clit. I need relief. I need to scratch this itch before it drives me insane. The friction of my hand lacks the pressure I crave. My body rejects the solo attempt.

I grab one of the stiff hospital pillows from the top of the bed. Rolling over onto my knees, I shove the pillow deep between my thighs. The rough, cheap fabric of the pillowcase rubs right against my swollen clit.

I squeeze my legs together and rock my hips forward. I hump the pillow with frantic, desperate thrusts. The friction hits the right spot, but the emptiness inside me still aches.

"Finn." I gasp his name into the empty room, my nails digging into the mattress.

Tension coils tight in my stomach. My hips buck wildly against the pillow. I picture Finn’s auburn hair and wide shoulders. But my traitorous mind refuses to stop there. Malcolm’s dark, intense eyes flash behind my closed eyelids. I imagine his large hands gripping my hips to hold me in place. Lawrence’s easy smile twists into a dominant smirk as he watches me fall apart.

Even Victor’s carved jawline and icy eyes invade my head. The arrogant prick complained about the smell of my hospital, but the memory of his broad shoulders and thick thighs makes my pussy clench with a treacherous surge of desire.

I hate them. I hate all of them for doing this to me. But my body ignores my hatred and begs for their touch.

"Alphas!" I scream the word into the sterile room. "I need a knot. Give me a real knot!"

The explicit confession pushes me over the edge. The climax crashes over my senses and blinds me with white-hot heat. My inner thigh muscles spasm. My soaked pussy clenches and contracts around empty air, milking an invisible cock. I cry out, burying my face into the sheets as wave after wave of intense release wracks my trembling body.

I hump the pillow through the rolling waves of the orgasm, chasing every last drop of pleasure until my hips stutter and stop.

I ride the high until the muscle spasms finally slow down. Dropping the ruined, slick-stained pillow, I collapse flat on my back. Sweat coats my chest and stomach. My lungs heave to drag desperate gulps of air through my mouth.

For sixty glorious seconds, my mind clears. The pressure in my skull vanishes.

The throb returns without warning. It bites into my raw flesh with twice the intensity of before. An echoing, desperate emptiness opens up deep inside my pelvis. My body clenches and screams for the one thing the hospital pillow failed to provide. It demands real Alphas to finish the job.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. The ache feels agonizing. I roll onto my side and pull my knees up to my chest. A sob breaks past my lips. I hate this reality. I built a life on practical, independent choices. I never needed anyone to regulate my hormones or fix my body.

Now, I lie trembling in a ruined hospital bed, weeping from sheer frustration as my traitorous biology destroys my self-control.

Hours bleed together in a blur of fever and relentless aching.

The isolation room features no windows, leaving me blind to the passage of time. I writhe on the damp sheets, fighting the urge to touch myself again. Every climax just makes the inevitable crash worse. My body demands a real Alpha, and my stubborn brain refuses to accept the humiliating craving.

The lock on the metal door finally clicks. The heavy hinges groan.