Sharing a Tent with My Best Friend's Brother

Chapter 1

Nobody knew about my condition until Daisy's engagement trip to her family's Wyoming ranch.

I forgot my medication that weekend.

And Daisy, in her usual cheerful bossiness, assigned me to share a tent with her older brother, Colt.

In front of him, I climaxed, tears streaming down my face, my body shuddering beyond my control.

And since I could no longer hide it, my impulses unraveled completely.

I have suffered from hypersexuality since I was nineteen.

It does not mean what you think it means.

It is not about wanting s*x with everyone I meet.

It is not about promiscuity or moral failure.

It is about losing command of my own body at the worst possible moments.

A stranger's accidental brush against my arm, the lingering warmth of a handshake, even the sudden pressure of a crowded subway car can trigger a full-body response that leaves me gasping and mortified.

I remember the first time I truly understood something was wrong—I was nineteen, sitting in a lecture hall, and the boy next to me leaned over to share his notes.

His shoulder touched mine for barely three seconds.

My entire body convulsed, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying out.

I fled the room before the professor even noticed.

After that, I lived in constant fear of accidental contact.

If the touch lasts more than a few seconds, I am done for.

My climaxes come without warning, crashing over me like rogue waves—remorseless, overwhelming, humiliating.

I have learned to bite my tongue, to clench my fists, to smile through the spasms as if nothing is wrong.

But inside, I am drowning.

I used to think I would grow out of it.

That my hormones would settle, that my twenties would bring wisdom and calm.

They never did.

The first time it happened in public, I was twenty-one.

A barista touched my hand when he passed me my coffee.

He was just being polite, his fingers grazing mine for less than a second.

I came embarrassingly hard right there at the counter.

I dropped the cup, scalded my leg, and smiled as if I had merely been clumsy.

No one knew.

No one ever knew.

For years, I hid it.

I stayed single, avoided physical contact like the plague, became the girl who flinched at friendly hugs and sidestepped handshakes.

I built a fortress around my skin because my skin had betrayed me too many times.

I wore long sleeves in summer, sat in the corner of every room, and developed an elaborate system of excuses to avoid being touched.

My friends thought I was quirky, maybe a little neurotic.

They never guessed the truth.

Then, two years ago, I found a doctor who finally understood.

She prescribed a transdermal patch—a small, unassuming square of medication that I changed twice a week.

It kept the monster locked inside.

It gave me my life back.

I could hug my friends without fear.

I could sit next to a man on the train and not tremble.

I could almost pretend I was normal.

But the patches were not a cure—they were a leash.

And the one weekend I forgot those patches, everything fell apart.

The trip was Daisy's idea, of course.

She was my best friend from university—vivid, loud, and relentlessly optimistic.

She had just gotten engaged to Chase, a soft-spoken architect with kind eyes, and she wanted to celebrate with a rustic weekend at her family's horse ranch in the Wyoming mountains.

"Small group," she promised over the phone.

"Me, Chase, a few other friends from town, and you."

She paused, and I heard the sly smile in her voice.

"And Colt."

Colt. Daisy's older brother.

Thirty-four.

Former rodeo champion, now a horse trainer with a reputation for being quiet, reliable, and devastatingly handsome.

I had seen photos of him on Daisy's social media—golden skin, lean muscle, sun-streaked hair that fell across his brow, a quiet smile that made women stare a second too long.

I had never met him in person.

I tried to smile normally when Daisy mentioned his name.

"Sounds fun."

But my stomach had already tightened.

It was not fun.

It was a minefield.

Because every time I even imagined being near Colt, my body lit up in ways I could not control.

The patches had kept those phantom urges at bay, but the thought of him—those broad shoulders, that easy confidence—was enough to make my pulse quicken.

I said yes anyway.

I packed my bag, carefully placed my patch box on the bathroom counter, and then—in my rush to catch the carpool—I left it there.

The little white box, sitting on the shelf, waiting.

I did not realize until we were already winding through the mountain passes, the pine trees thickening outside the window.

My stomach dropped.

I could not tell Daisy.

I could not tell anyone.

I told myself I would be careful.

Two days.

I could make it.

Keep distance.

Don't touch.

Don't let anyone touch you.

It was a good plan.

It worked for about twenty hours.

The ranch was beautiful beyond words—pine forests sweeping down to green meadows, a creek glittering in the afternoon sun, and at night, a sky so full of stars it felt like a velvet blanket studded with diamonds.

Daisy's friends roasted marshmallows by a crackling bonfire, beer bottles clinked, and laughter floated on the cedar-scented smoke.

Colt sat across the fire from me.

The flames carved shadows across his cheekbones and deepened the hollows of his throat.

I tried not to look.

I failed spectacularly.

Every time he laughed, every time he stretched his long legs, every time he brushed that strand of hair from his forehead, my skin tingled with dangerous heat.

At midnight, Daisy came back from the ranch office with a sheepish expression.

"Bad news," she announced. "The main cabin is being tented for termites. No one can sleep there tonight."

A collective groan went through the group.

"Don't panic." Daisy held up a tent bag.

"We've got tents. Just not enough for everyone."

She counted heads.

"Girls can take the big one. Guys, you're in the other. But that leaves one odd number out."

Her eyes landed on me.

"Wren, honey. You're the calmest. You don't mind sharing with the boys, right?"

My smile froze on my face.

Colt was standing beside the tent bag, his work shirt damp from a late ride, the lantern light outlining the powerful set of his shoulders.

I could feel it already—the slow heat beginning to curl in my stomach, the faint prickle at the nape of my neck.

"I'll sleep in the tack room," I said quickly.

"Really, I don't mind—"

"Don't be ridiculous." Daisy laughed.

"The tent's huge. Jesse sleeps like a log. And Colt is a perfect gentleman."

She looked at her brother.

"So you'll stay on your side, right?"

He shrugged, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face.

"I'm harmless."

I wanted to laugh.

He was the opposite of harmless.

He was the most dangerous thing I had ever seen.

At midnight, I lay in my sleeping bag, huddled in the corner of the tent, my back pressed against the canvas.

Colt was on the left side, his back turned to me.

Jesse, Chase's friend from college, sprawled in the middle, snoring like a chainsaw.

Moonlight filtered through the mesh ceiling, casting pale stripes across the nylon floor.

I checked my phone.

Twelve fifteen.

Six hours and fifteen minutes since my last patch.

The suppressants were wearing off.

I felt it in my skin first—a faint, tingling prickle, then a warm flush creeping up my arms, my chest, and my thighs.

My heart began to race.

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste copper.

Not now.

Please, not now.

But the heat was already spreading like a tide coming in, inexorable and cruel.

I pressed my thighs together, trying to hold on, trying to will my body into submission.

The hardest part was knowing it would only get worse.