Page 38 of Heat Lightning

He did that a lot. I’d spent countless hours imagining it was my fingers running through his silky hair, instead.

My chest relaxed at seeing him safe and sound, the tension that’d built up from the half hour he was out of my sight melting away. I was still stretched thin, aching for him so acutely I could almost reach across the lake and touch him, but seeing him soothed me enough to get by.

Max set his phone aside and stared at the ceiling. Was he thinking about me?

I liked to imagine he was, just so I wasn’t alone in this burning desire. Sometimes, he stayed up and stared out at the lake for hours, late into the night. On those evenings I turned on the lamp in my bedroom, too, so he’d know he wasn’t the only one sleepless and lonely.

Tonight, though, was for the shadows.

I knew this was fucked up. So, so fucked up. But in the grand scheme of things that came alongside accidentally bonding with someone you could never have, this was pretty minor.

Right?

Briefly looking away from Max, I picked up the ziplock bag. This was something I hadn’t done before, and it took my obsession to a level I’d regret when the post-nut clarity hit.

But the temptation was too strong.

I’d spotted Max’s dirty boxers draped over the side of the hamper in my frantic flight from his room. On impulse, I reached out and snagged them before shoving myself through the window, barely escaping the clawing reach of his territorial demon cat.

In any other circumstance I’d respect a worthy opponent, but I’d rather not have to nurse the scratches.

Zip-lock bags were useful for so many reasons; I always kept some in my car, just in case a need arose. Tonight, it was to preserve the freshness of his scent until I returned home to my view and some goddamn privacy.

Bracing myself, I palmed my cock through the thin jersey material. I was already hard from the prospect of what I was about to do, and a sizable bulge tented my gray sweatpants.

I cracked the bag open, and his scent hit me like a wall. My alpha snarled, spittle flying everywhere as it strained against the ever-weakening chains holding it back.

Hands trembling, I pulled the boxers from the plastic, buried my face right where his scent was most concentrated, and inhaled.

Sweat.

Skin.

Laundry detergent.

Underneath, pure Max. Innocent, wary curiosity, sweet laughter, and buttery joy mixed with warm vanilla and freshly baked bread.

There was no burn of fear. In fact, he smelled happy. My mate was happy and fulfilled and smelled like chocolate cake when he was aroused and⁠—

Fireworks exploded behind my eyes. I groaned, hips jerking in aborted thrusts while I came in my pants, untouched.

Panting, I breathed through the strongest orgasm I’d had in years, taking in great big lungfuls of his scent.

Holy fuck, that was spiritual.

When I could see straight, I searched for the binoculars with shaky hands and looked again, because I had to. Maybe he’d be asleep by now, and I could pass out, too, hoping he’d dream of me.

But Max wasn’t asleep; his lamp was still on. I focused in, forehead creasing as it took me a second to realize what I was seeing. He had the covers tossed aside and an arm reaching between his legs, almost like⁠—

I choked. The binoculars tumbled to the floor.

“Oh, God,” I groaned out loud to no one.

In all my years of hunting, catching someone mid-wank was eye-rollingly mundane. I had no interest in it in the slightest.

But Max? My Max?

I’d never caught him pleasuring himself before. I honestly wondered about it, but wrote it off as fate intervening and keeping me from seeing something I wasn’t meant to.