by Amy Valenti
A Total-E-Bound Publication
www.total-e-bound.com
Hidden Heat
ISBN # 978-0-85715-922-9
©Copyright Amy Valenti 2012
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright March 2012
Edited by Rebecca Hill
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2012 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e- burning and a sexometer of 2.
This story contains 85 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 8 pages.
HIDDEN HEAT
Amy Valenti
When your body betrays you and your government might kill you for it, can you really trust that a sexy man is all he seems?
In an Orwellian future world, highly skilled professionals must be sexually suppressed, to focus them better on their work. They get one week per year to procreate—a ‘heat phase’ allocated to them by computer.
Holly had been ready to give up everything for her career as a doctor—including her sexual urges. Her body rejected the treatment, denying her access to higher medical training, but Holly used her aunt’s connections to the clinic to cheat the system. Now she’s an unsuppressed woman struggling to hide in plain sight, and to control her desires without being discovered.
If the government finds out she’s faking it, they’ll likely kill her. So when a sexy medical student named Scott turns on the charm while flashing the wrist tattoos that mark them both as suppressed, Holly is terrified of letting her guard down with him. Could there really be a secret resistance faction whose aim is to abolish the suppression laws? And, if she gives in to Scott’s advances, will there be terrible consequences?
Dedication
To the lovely people who read through the first half of this and gave me such encouraging, constructive feedback. Amanda, Chev, Dana, Diana—you all rule.
To Marianne de Pierres, who gave me a taste for dystopian fiction with her amazing Parrish Plessis novels and nurtured it over the years. To Jamie Marriage, who’s written (and let me edit) a fair amount of speculative fiction, too.
And, finally, a nod to George Orwell and his amazing novel, Nineteen Eighty-Four, which inspired this book. Well, a bit.
Chapter One
I kicked off the blankets, overheated in the warm summer night. The cool air felt good against my bare legs, and I pushed up my camisole top to grant it access to my midriff.
Around me, the room was dark and quiet. From the living room, I could hear the faint noise of the netcast—my roommates watching some show or movie. It was still early, but I had to be up in the morning for a class, whereas they could afford to sit up until late into the night and sleep in until lunchtime.
I considered the morning to come, plotting everything out in my head. What time I needed to get out of bed, what time my train would arrive. Whether the hot guy I kept seeing in the corridors of the university would be around that early in the day.
My body felt hypersensitive, tingling with the beginnings of desire. Almost involuntarily, I slid a hand over my breast, feeling my nipple harden under my fingers, the thin material of my shirt rising with it. A faint sigh escaped my lips, shaky and soft, and I squeezed my thighs together, cautious out of habit.
Can I get away with it? Is it safe?
All medical students who passed their first three years underwent suppression—the voluntary altering of their hormones and physiology that all professionals submitted to. After they did, they were known as part of the Focused elite and no longer felt sexual urges or thoughts towards anyone, except during the one week allocated to them—their ‘heat phase’.
It wasn’t just doctors who had to go through it. Nurses, lawyers, politicians, scientists, law enforcers—they all underwent the same procedure. They all agreed to give up their natural urges so that they wouldn’t become ‘distracted’ by carnal concerns. One hundred per cent career-focused.
I’d undergone my suppression six months ago. Three times. As far as anyone knew, the third time had worked, and I was as sexually dead as the rest of them.
I’d faked it. And if anyone found out, I’d never realise my dreams of becoming a doctor. They’d throw me off the course, and I’d be doomed to work in the goods and menial services industries forever. I’d never save lives. I’d never heal anyone. And that was if they let me live.
But, God, I wanted so much to fuck someone right now. Was that such a crime?
I slid my hand low, lower, straining to hear the sounds of my roommates talking or laughing, anything to indicate that they were both in the same room, out of earshot of any stray sounds that might escape my bedroom. For torturous seconds, there was nothing, and I lay still, too cautious to continue even though my panties were damp and wild fantasies were beginning to dance through my imagination.
Then I heard one of them speak and the other reply and, with a gasp of relief, I worked my hand into my panties, my fingers quickly becoming coated in the slick wetness of my arousal.
I imagined him again—walking past me with a smile, looking me up and down for just a moment. He must not have been far enough through his studies to have undergone suppression, because, from the way he’d looked at me, he’d definitely seen something he liked.
He was tall—dark hair, blue eyes that seemed to see right through my clothing to what was underneath. Just me, unsuppressed, unfulfilled, wanting him, desperate for his touch.
I bit back a moan, rolling over to smother it against the pillow. The terror of discovery brought a heady thrill, and I slid my other hand up under my shirt, pinching and rolling one nipple, then the other, fucking myself with my fingers, slipping them deep inside me before rubbing the moisture into my tingling clit.
My breath came hard and again I listened for the sounds of my friends talking and laughing. Nothing—but I couldn’t stop now, couldn’t resist, couldn’t even think of it. If they heard me or walked in now, I was fucked, and not in the way I wanted to be.
How would he fuck me, my mystery boy? Would he be gentle, plenty of foreplay, rocking me closer and closer to climax? Or would he be rough, pinning me to the wall, driving into me, nipping at my neck and leaving marks on my breasts with his teeth?
I whimpered, so low, so quiet, but it seemed loud in the silence.
Silence? When did they shut off the netcast? Oh, God, stop, stop, you have to stop…
I couldn’t. If one of them decided they wanted to borrow something from my room and tiptoed in to get it, they’d smell the scent of my arousal in the air even if I feigned sleep. I was in too deep to deny it now—I just had to keep quiet and hope neither of them decided now was a good time to disturb me.
My fingers slipped and skated across my clit, light and fast and wet. My c
limax was almost within reach and I twisted the fingers of my free hand in my hair, tugging painfully, the extra sensation acting as an aphrodisiac. Trembling, I buried my head in the pillow again, rubbing harder, less directly now, until I came with a silent scream of release. My breath exploded out of me as the pleasure spiked once, twice, three times, more; ebbing each time until all I felt was a warm, satisfied languor.
I listened again, withdrawing my hand guiltily from my panties. Had either of them heard me? The sounds of my body moving against the sheets, my gasps and sighs?
I couldn’t hear a thing, and I wasn’t sure if I was grateful or freaked out. The sweat cooled on my skin, giving me a slight chill, and I cocooned myself in my blankets, tormented by anxiety.
Somewhere below me, the back door opened with a squeal. My housemates’ voices returned, faint but audible. They’d gone outside to share a cigarette, as they often did when they were trying to quit. Apparently, one cigarette between them didn’t count.
I just hadn’t heard them go out. I was safe.
Sighing my relief, I tiptoed to the window and opened it wider, letting fresh air flood into the room. The smell of sex that lingered in the room would dissipate soon, and then I could sleep.
I really had to get a place of my own. These furtive, fevered sessions of self-pleasure were just too stressful to keep up.
Chapter Two
On the train journey from the suburbs into the city, I fantasised about the coffee I was going to buy when I got to the university. The shop around the corner sold the best vanilla lattes I’d ever tasted, and I was going to need the caffeine and sugar rush to get through the morning.
All things considered, though, I was doing okay. Last night’s risky orgasm had taken the edge off, and I was almost cheerful. I had to keep in mind that in just under six months I’d have a week to go wild without worrying about the repercussions. A whole week to do whatever—and whomever—I wanted, provided the focus of my plans was willing, of course.
The menials looked at us as if we were crazy—staring at the ice-blue tattooed bands around our wrists as if what had been done to us had been against our will. Their gazes were often dismayed and pitying.
I understood. God, I understood. And I hadn’t wanted to be suppressed, either, though it had been my choice.
“It’s okay,” they’d told me, once I’d passed my third year and proved I was determined to be a damn good doctor one day. “Once you’ve had the procedure, you won’t miss the sexual urges. That might seem impossible to believe now—especially at your age—but we can’t have our doctors distracted. The patients insist on focused medical personnel, and so do we.”
I’d been worrying about it since I’d started—become one of the Focused and save lives, or keep my sexual urges and work in a coffee shop for my entire life? I’d come down, reluctantly, on the side of being a doctor. After all, at least they didn’t suppress the urges entirely. I’d have a week per year to have as much sex as I wanted, as long as I didn’t go anywhere near the hospital. So I went in for the procedure, the pride and approval of family and similar-minded friends ringing in my ears.
An hour or so later I’d come round and they’d tested all five of my senses with sexual stimuli. In the most clinical and result-recording way possible, of course, since the doctors had been suppressed themselves. Within the first five seconds I’d been breathless with desire and the clinical disinterest had become frowns of confusion and disapproval.
They’d scheduled a second appointment for the following week and I’d returned home in tears, cursing my body for its resistance to the treatment.
A week later, I’d gone through the whole thing again with the same results. My final appointment had been made for two weeks after that, when they’d have finished studying my physiological map for irregularities. Three strikes and I’d be out. I’d never be a doctor.
A crackly announcement over the PA system jolted me back to the present, and I only just made it to the platform before the train set off again. My good mood a little dampened by the dark memories, I headed out of the station and down the hill towards the university.
* * * *
The room was almost full when I got there, latte in hand and the taste of vanilla on my tongue. I took a seat near the door and cradled the warm cardboard cup, listening to the chatter around me and smiling a little at some of the topics of conversation. A couple of people said hi to me—we were professionals now, though, and social conversation could wait until after the lecture. I just returned the greetings and pulled my notebook out of my bag.
Yeah, maybe I took the Focused act a little too far, sometimes. But only because I was scared. Really scared.
The best thing about pretending to be suppressed, though? If I acted weird, the Focused wouldn’t assume I was turned on, or scared because I wasn’t suppressed—because part of the treatment was to make sexual associations distant. All part of the job. Focus, focus, focus.
Our tutor settled down behind his desk and cleared his throat. Within five seconds, the room was deathly silent. Sometimes I got the feeling it wasn’t just sexual urges that were suppressed during the procedure. Considering that we were students, every now and then we were a little too well behaved. Automatons. It was kind of Orwellian.
As the tutor began to outline what the session was to be about, I felt a disturbance in the air as the door to the room opened. I wanted to look round, but there was the fear again—that no one else would look, that I would stand out.
“You’re late.” The tutor levelled a disapproving gaze at whoever had just come in. I still didn’t dare to look. Instead, I took an oh-so-casual sip of my latte and waited for whatever came next.
“I’m sorry, I really am. I overslept. Won’t happen again.”
That, at least, was still common amongst Focused students. If it wasn’t, I’d be seriously freaked out.
The tutor sighed. “Take a seat.”
The latecomer pulled the chair beside mine away from the desk and sat down. When the tutor started up again, I chanced a glance across at him.
The first thing I noticed were the tattooed bands around his wrists, the ones that marked him as Focused. The second was his identity—the guy I’d been seeing around, the one I’d been thinking about last night when I…
Oh, shit. It had to be him, and it had to be today?
I’d be lucky to get through the morning without being hauled into the suppression clinic.
I tried to focus on what the tutor was saying—and make notes that were actually relevant—but every time I breathed in I smelt his understated cologne and an underlying, faint musk that was just him. I wanted to bury my face in his neck and let his scent take over my senses, but somehow I doubted that was acceptable behaviour, even amongst the menials.
The tutor told us to pair up and discuss the relative pros and cons of a good bedside manner. Immediately, the guy beside me turned and offered his hand. “Scott Thorne.”
I couldn’t refuse it without seeming rude. It was just a handshake, after all. “Holly Trent.”
His shake was perfunctory, but there was a warmth in his gaze that I hadn’t expected. Trying not to make too much of it, I withdrew my hand and picked up my notepad and pen. “So… Pros of a good bedside manner.”
The tutor approached us to eavesdrop, and Scott began counting them off on his fingers, perfectly innocent. “Your patients don’t hate you, and less stress means they’ll heal faster.”
“Good point.” I was amused by his words, though I wasn’t sure how much of that was down to my infatuation with him. “Ummm… It makes your working relationships easier.”
“Always one of my priorities.” Had he just winked at me? Thank God I’d never been the blushing type. I’d have been found out for sure.
The tutor moved on, and I waited until he was paying attention to another pair of students before giving Scott a proper once-over. His tattoos were real, all right—exactly the same shade and design as mine. Had h
e escaped the suppression, too? How? And could I trust him with my secret?
“Relax.” His voice was softer now; more intimate. “You’re too tense. If you keep this up, they’ll start to ask themselves why.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tried to follow his advice, even though I resented it. Hadn’t I made it through six months of feigned suppression just fine?
“Sure you don’t. Then we can just pretend we’re both Focused and completely concentrating on the question at hand. Got any more pros of a good bedside manner, or shall we move on to cons?”
Making sure my face was tilted away from the rest of the group, I scowled at him. “A good bedside manner means you’re more open to how patients are feeling. It can help with diagnosis.” Lowering my voice, I hissed, “What do you want from me?”
Scott smiled and the lustful, objectifying part of my brain sighed happily. He was more attractive than I’d remembered the night before, especially wearing that half-grin.
“Good one.” He made a note in his notepad before lowering his voice enough to answer my question. “You haven’t been trained to hide it properly. I can help.”
“Cons,” I said decisively, underlining the word in my notepad with a hand that trembled a little. Was I that close to discovery? “What are you suggesting?” I whispered, trying my best to keep my composure.
“You can get too invested in a particular patient,” he said, giving a disadvantage to having a good bedside manner and writing something down. Tearing it out of the notepad, he passed it to me surreptitiously, and my skin tingled as his fingers brushed my palm.
“That’s true.” I stared down at the words written in a scrawl that was almost as bad as mine. We were training to be doctors—it came with the territory.