Page 1 of Salt and Knot

Chapter 1

Isla

I’m sweaty.

There’s no other word for it. The sun beats down on this tiny sandy cove, well off the main coastal path in Cornwall. The water looks inviting, cool and refreshing on this sunny summer afternoon.

I’m nervous about getting undressed though. Of course. I’m on my own, and I’ve heard all the lectures about how omegas need to protect ourselves, alphas are uncontrolled beasts, and being exposed is risky.

I stare out at the sea, tranquil and flat all the way to where it merges into the blue of the sky at the horizon, and it calls to me. This tiny beach isn’t more than a few paces across, and I had to climb down a steep little bank to get to it. But there was a path, as though people—or more likely animals—have been here before.

It’s completely private. No one around. Most of my trip has been this way, but this is especially quiet. After all my life in an industrial city with bustle and crowds, the peace is unbelievable. I feel like I can think for the first time. Like the itch I’ve had forever is finally easing.

Surely it wouldn’t hurt to paddle my feet? They’re so hot and achy in my cheap, still-inflexible walking boots, and I’m hot all over. My walk along the gorgeous coastline—alone—seems a bit silly now that it’s so roasting I might as well be in an oven. The summer day is warmer than it looks.

I’d think it was the beginning of a heat—it would be my first ever—but I’ve skipped a few pills before with no effect. So even though I forgot to pack my heat suppressant drugs and the little place I’m staying in didn’t have the brand I use available, I doubt it’s that.

I glance around.

There’s the roof of a large house—almost as big as a castle—just visible over the cliff, but otherwise no one’s here except the sea gulls crying and the sun beating down on me.

Fuck it.

The sand gives beneath me as I flop down onto it and pull off my backpack. My hands are shaking as I undo the laces on my boots.

Am I seriously going to get into the water? I’ve never been to the sea before, and all the scare-stories about it bounce around my head. The things my foster mother used to say about how you could be dragged out to sea, waves knocking you out, and that if you couldn’t see through the water, it could hide anything. But none of that applies to paddling today. The water is crystal clear and flat, and I’ll just go in up to my ankles. Knees maximum.

My feet are red and pinched, but when I get up and skip over the hot sand, and step into the water, my feet are washed over by a tiny wave of salty water and I moan. It’s so good.

The relief is instant. I don’t know if it’s the sea, or that my feet were seriously uncomfortable, but oh god, this is perfect.

I go a bit deeper, up to my ankles, and the cool water pricks at my skin, then soothes. It’s wonderful. Totally unlike a swimming pool. The sand yields and shifts between my toes, and the water feels alive in a way that chlorinated pools don’t, luring me further in. Before I know it, I’m up to my knees.

Maybe this is as untrue as the insistence of my foster-mother that having a heat is bad?

But I’m still too hot. It’s as though the water has pushed all the heat up my body. With a groan, I go deeper, the gentle shift of the mirror-like water almost tugging me in. And then I’m at my thighs, and I vaguely recognise that I should stop.

I can’t.

At very least, I should pause and remove my shorts because I’m going to get them wet. But it feels irrelevant. I sweep my fingertips into the water and it’s like coming home. Soft. Comforting. The perfect temperature as my body continues to burn in the sunshine.

Could I skinny dip?

I do another quick check, glancing back at the beach and up to the clifftop path. It’s deserted.

This is wicked. Naughty. Risky.

I tug my T-shirt over my head before balling it up and throwing it to shore, where it sails onto the dry sand. My bra goes the same way.

My breasts feel even hotter with the sun directly on them.

I look down at my shorts, and the impulse to just drag them off, plunging them into the sea and kicking them off my ankles is almost unbearable. But I’m not crazy. I’ve heard of chafing, and I still have a couple of hours of walking before I reach my campsite for the night.

Taking a step back, I intend to remove my shorts without them getting wet, but the sand moves again and instead of being shallower, I’ve slipped further into the water. In a second, it’s to the top of my thighs, then at my pussy.

My head swims with the sensation of the cold water on the inexplicably burning place between my legs.

My nipples are pinched with arousal.