"I'm efficient." He peered down at me, his head tilting. "You look like you've been electrocuted, Alf."
"Feels like it." I dragged a hand over my face, smelling the ghost of citrus on my own skin, wishful thinking, mostly. "It was... intense. She asked me to talk her through it."
Everything went still. Not the awkward kind, but the sharp, focused silence of predators noticing movement in the grass.
Kit crouched down next to me, balancing on the balls of his boots. "She asked you?"
"Yeah. Off-comms. Through the wood." I looked up at him, meeting the wolfish protective glare he saves for family. "I didn't touch the handle, Kit. Swear down. But I... I didn't leave her in the dark, either."
Kit searched my eyes for a long second, then nodded, a sharp, decisive movement. He reached out and squeezed my shoulder, his grip grounding. "Good lad. That’s the job. Whatever she needs, minus the contact."
"Furniture or wall," I recited, the mantra tasting bitter and sweet.
"Or the voice in the dark," Euan added quietly. He wasn't looking at us; he was watching the empty corridor leading to the green room, his expression unreadable. "You gave her a safety anchor. That is not a failure of restraint, Alfred. That is a successful deployment of care."
Hearing my government name from Euan usually means I’m in trouble or he’s getting sentimental. I decided to take it as the latter.
"Right," Cal interrupted, checking his watch. "Bus is prepped. Euan’s got the scrubbers running on high in the backlounge. We need to act normal, load out the rest of the gear, and wait for the 'all clear' signal from the green room. Can you walk, Alfie, or do we need the dolly?"
"I can walk," I grumbled, forcing myself up. My knees protested, but the adrenaline was starting to curdle into exhaustion. "Just need a sec to stop shaking."
"Take two," Kit said, standing up to shield me from the venue staff starting to mill about at the far end of the hall. Instead of standing there like a muppet I turned and went back to the bathrooms. Right now I needed my own space where I could process what just happened.
The venue loo was a tiled echo chamber of damp concrete and bleach that smelled like it hadn't been properly scrubbed since the nineties. It was perfect. Cold, sterile, and empty.
I kicked the heavy door shut and threw the deadbolt, the metal sliding home with a satisfying clunk.
My back hit the cubicle wall, sliding down the graffiti-covered partition until my boots skirmished on the wet floor. The silence in here was ringing, loud and oppressive, but it couldn't drown out the loop playing in my head.
Closer.
Her voice, stripped of all that tech-shield armor, wet with need.
My hands were shaking so bad I could barely undo my belt. I shoved my trousers down, freeing myself, and the air hit my skin, cool against the fever heat radiating off me.
I didn’t need to close my eyes to see it. I was still there, in that hallway, forehead pressed against the wood grain.
I wrapped my hand around myself, and a ragged hiss escaped my teeth. Too sensitive. Way too wired. My body was primed for a mate, for the bite and the friction of a claim, and all I had was my own hand and a cold bathroom stall.
"Fuck," I breathed, the word bouncing off the tiles.
I stroked down, short and sharp, trying to bleed off the edge.
The memory assaulted me. The sound of her shifting on the floorboards. The specific, hitching rhythm of her breath when I told her I’d map her pulse points. It wasn't just the arousal, it was the power of theask. She’d handed me the keys to her release, kept the door locked, and trusted me to drive.
Talk me through it.
I drove my hand harder, matching the frantic beat of my heart. My thumb brushed the head, and I saw the black Sharpie ink on my skin. ASK > ASSUME. Even here, tangled in the mess of my own biology, the motto stared back at me.
It made me harder.
God, the way she’d unraveled. I replayed the sound of her whimpering my name,Alfie, Alfie, please, letting it wash over me like gasoline. It was better than any touch I’d had in years. It was pure, distilled trust. She broke because she knew I wouldn't break the door.
"Come on," I groaned, forcing the pace, my hips snapping forward into emptiness.
My scent flooded the small stall, burnt sugar scorching the back of my throat, heavy and thick like molasses. I imagined her scent mixing with it, that neon citrus tang, not behind a door but right here, her legs wrapped around my waist, her head thrown back, that fox-tail tattoo vibrating against my lips.
I’d find where you’re wet for me.
