The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight. I clear my throat, reaching for the water bottle. "Drink this first. You're dehydrated."
"How do you know?"
"Can smell it." I uncap the bottle and hold it out. "You need water, food, and a hot bath. In that order."
"Bossy," he murmurs, but he pushes himself up—wincing with every movement—until he's sitting against the headboard. The sheet pools at his waist, and I can see the full extent of my marks across his chest and shoulders.
Something primal and satisfied rumbles through me at the sight.
He takes the water, drinks half of it in one long pull, then sets it aside and looks at me. Really looks, with those warm brown eyes that saw me flash gold and shift and didn't run screaming.
"Last night was incredible," he says quietly. "I didn't know it could be like that. That I could—" He breaks off, cheeks going pink, which is ridiculous considering what we did. "That I could come that many times. Or that I'd like the... the telling me what to do part. So much."
My lion preens. "You were perfect. Took everything I gave you."
"Did I?" He looks down at himself, cataloging the marks, and his blush deepens. "God. I look like I lost a fight with a vacuum cleaner."
"You look claimed."
His breath catches. When he meets my eyes again, there's heat there, but also something more tentative. "Knox..."
"Bath," I say, before he can ask whatever question is forming behind those eyes. Not because I don't want to answer, but because he's swaying slightly just from sitting up, and the aftercare comes first. We can talk after. "Can you stand?"
"I have absolutely no idea."
"Then I'll carry you."
"You can't just—Knox!"
But I'm already scooping him up, one arm under his knees, the other behind his back. He weighs nothing. Less than nothing. He flails for a second before giving up and looping his arms around my neck.
"This is ridiculous," he mutters into my shoulder. "I can walk."
"Can you?"
A pause. "Probably not well."
"Then shut up and let me take care of you."
He makes a sound that might be protest or might be something else entirely. But he stops arguing, just tucks his face against my neck and lets me carry him to the bathroom.
The tub is almost full now, steam rising off the water. I lower him in carefully, watching his face for any sign of too-hot or too-much. What I get instead is a moan that goes straight to my cock.
"Oh my god." His eyes flutter closed as he sinks into the heat. "Oh, that's... that's amazing. I'm never leaving this bathtub. This is my home now."
"I'll bring you food."
"Perfect. I'll live here forever. Send my mail to the bathtub."
I sit on the edge of the tub, watching him relax by degrees. The tension drains out of his shoulders. The little furrow between his brows smooths out. He tips his head back against the rim, throat exposed, covered in my marks, and just breathes.
Beautiful. He's so fucking beautiful.
"Knox." His eyes are still closed. "Stop staring at me."
"No."
A smile tugs at his mouth. "Creep."
