Another howl escapes me as I pad through the snow, but I ignore it.

Back in my bedroom and freshly showered, I do my best not to mourn the loss of Tess’s scent on my clothes. My pajama bottoms and my clean skin smell only of me, and I tell myself this is a good thing. It’s one step toward a smooth reno, free of any complications or distractions. Something I’m sure Tess wants too.

I toss the towel I was using to dry my hair into the hamper in the corner, then plop down onto the end of my bed and lean back on my hands. The knowledge that Tess is only a few doors away makes me restless, almost like I shouldn’t be here. Like I should be with her instead. Which is insane. It makes no sense. Not unless—

A sudden pounding at my door has me jolting upright on my bed, frowning at the wood even as another series of sharp knocks sounds in the space. It hits me then—overwhelming, like a lightning strike—and I’m on my feet before I even know what I’m doing, wrenching the door open and throwing it wide, though I already know what’s waiting for me. I can smell it.

And suddenly so much makes sense—the restlessness, the urges, all of it. Because there’s only one thing that could send my system into overdrive so quickly, one thing that could override all my good sense and turn me into little more than an animal just going on instinct.

And she’s currently outside my door, her skin pink and flushed and her scent so potent it might as well be a drug. It’s so thick I can practically taste it on my tongue, and her eyes are little more than black pupils, her mouth parted as she pants raggedly.

“Hunter.”

My name on her too-red mouth, like she’s been biting her lips—it makes every muscle in my body draw up tight, and I feel my own resolve crumble into nothing. Feel it burn up and float away.

Because Tess Covington is outside my door, saying my name sweetly and looking at me like she’s desperate, like she’s needy—like I’m the only one who can give her what she’s looking for. On some level, I reckon that could be true. Because the way she smells right now…

She is absolutely in heat, and she’s looking at me like she needs me.

Fuck.

I feel like shit.

I did my best to hide it while Hunter drove me home, but the symptoms that plagued me yesterday in Denver seem to be creeping back with a vengeance, making my head swim and my stomach cramp. I manage to get through a very stilted good-night, clutching his coat under my arm for reasons I can’t even fathom.

Strangely, when he’d offered it, I felt like I’d never wanted anything more.

Which is insane, really. Who gets giddy when someone offers them a coat?

Back in my room and freshly showered, I find myself doubled over on the bed, the meds I took doing very little to ease the discomfort. I grit my teeth as I squirm on the mattress, sweat beading at my temples and tremors racking my body.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I roll onto my back, my hand brushing the stiff material of Hunter’s Carhartt and rustling it as I try not to writhe. The action stirs up the potent scent that seems to cling to the fabric, the scent of sunshine and rain going from overly pleasant to oddly mouthwatering as my body instinctively shifts farther toward it.

Oh God.

It’s like heaven.

I bury my face in the lining, drawing in deep lungfuls of the delicious fragrance that, strangely enough, seems to make the cramps abate, if only a little. I’m questioning the logic of this when my body wakes up in a new way, making my torment suddenly crystal clear, even if it’s something I’ve only heard about secondhand.

Because suddenly I’m drenched between my legs.

And I’m not talking about a little, I’m talking about soaked underwear and a throbbing need that seems to hit me out of nowhere, making everything below the waist positively pulse with want.

“How?” I groan as I bundle up Hunter’s coat and shove my nose deeper into it.

The nice doctor in the ER certainly never mentioned this.

For the most part, we just have to let it run its course.

Run its course, my ass.

I revel in the utter relief that is Hunter’s coat, struck with the sudden urge to seek relief of a different kind. The need to touch myself is overwhelming, and before I realize what I’m doing, my hand is slipping into my sweatpants, my fingertips skimming over my lower abdomen and tucking into my underwear. I hiss when they glide through the moisture between my legs, which is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. It’s not like my usual arousal. No, this is something altogether different. More copious, more viscous, and somehow just…slicker.

But the momentary relief I feel when my fingertips glide over my wet clit is palpable, and my lips part on a silent cry as I circle the swollen bud. Suddenly all I can think about is coming, and with that in mind, I start to work my wrist, teasing and stroking myself as the cramps in my belly turn to a more pleasant simmer.

“Fuck,” I groan.

Is this really what Ada has to deal with?

And you too now.

I clutch Hunter’s coat to my nostrils as I roll onto my back, the smell of him somehow making my touches more potent, more enjoyable. It’s like his scent is giving me a high, making my skin tingle and my pussy clench. Even as I shake with an orgasm that is satisfying but somehow still not enough, I feel myself slipping into some sort of delirium, one that begs me to somehow get more of it.

Or, better yet, get it straight from the source.

A more rational part of my brain screams that this is a terrible idea—I’m even a little terrified by these current events—but that thought is lost to the rhythmic chanting that’s taken up somewhere in my hindbrain, one that shouts that there’s someone nearby who can make this feeling go away, that he can make it better. I don’t know where it comes from or what it really means, but before I can question it, I’m on my feet and stomping to my door.

Hunter’s coat is abandoned on my bedroom floor, but my needy body isn’t even perturbed by this, because it seems to know what I’m after. It seems to recognize that in a few moments, it will have something much better. Or at least I hope so.

I barely register that I’m beating on Hunter’s door; I have no idea what time it is or how long has passed since I saw him, but it’s fully dark outside now, so I have to assume a little while. He doesn’t answer at first, but I can see a shadow under the door, and the sight of it makes me even giddier, the anticipation in my blood actually singing.

I pound again, and when the door wrenches open moments later to reveal a wet-haired, shirtless Hunter Barrett looking like sex and sin, with his dark smattering of chest hair and his abs that look like I could wash clothes on them, I think I actually let out a whimper.

“Hunter.”

He looks at me for a long moment with shock in his features, and I can tell by the widening of his eyes that he knows. He knows what’s wrong with me. And maybe, my fevered brain whispers with delight, maybe he’s going to make it better.

“Tess?”

Jesus, his voice. Was it always this deep?

“Don’t feel good,” I tell him. “Hurt.”

He sucks in a breath when I fall into him and rub my cheek against his chest hair, brushing my fingers over his stomach to tease the hard muscle there. He feels like heaven against me, and I loop my arms around his neck and tug myself up, having the strangest urge to lick his neck.

“How are you—Jesus, Tess.”