“Yes, you have to,” I say firmly. “You need a shower, and so do I.” I let go of his hand when he’s sitting upright. He flops limply back onto the mattress. I try again, and the same thing happens. Eventually, I resort to slotting my hands under his armpits and picking him up forcibly.
There. See? That’s some taking charge of the situation right there.
I’ve got this.
I plonk him onto his feet. He’s wobbly and whiny, but I manage to guide him to the bathroom with a hand on his back to make sure he doesn’t turn and throw himself onto the bed again. He totters unsteadily to the bathroom, and I make a point of not watching his ass as he walks. I mean, yes, I do glance down at it, but I don’t growl at the sight, and I think anyone would agree that’s a clear case of non-predatory behavior. “You’ll feel so much better when you’re clean. You’ll see.”
“I won’t,” he pouts, turning to face me. His eyes darken and start to glimmer. Non-predatory behavior veers sharply into something distinctly less kosher. “I like beingdirty.” He drags the word out and rolls theRuntil the way he says it and the meaning of the word are the same.
I knew he was going to be a handful in heat. I knew that. I just didn’t know how much of a handful.
I claw back a semblance of control and turn on the water.
“Colder,” he says, pointing at the faucet when I inch it to an off-icy setting.
I groan internally as I turn it back to the coldest setting.
He gets into the shower with a reluctant huff and tilts his head under the spout, sighing as the frigid water runs down his body. He’s facing me, water rushing down his face in sheets, over his eyelids, dripping off his eyelashes. His lips are parted, and his fingers are carding his hair.
His legs are shaking so badly that I’m worried he’s going to fall over, so I get into the shower with him.
What? I am. I’m worried about him.
Almost two hundred and fifty thousand people in the United States visit the emergency room every year with injuries caused by falling in the shower. It’s a damn dangerous activity.
I can’t let danger befall my omega. I can’t. There’s no way I can allow it. It’s pretty much Being An Alpha 101—keep them fucked, keep them safe, and…shit. What was the other thing? Oh yes, physical needs. Take care of them.
“Let me,” I say, catching his hands and placing them on my shoulders. I try not to shudder in pleasure from histouch, and I’m largely successful. Somewhat successful. Whatever. “Hold on to me, and I’ll wash you.”
I expect him to raise hell at the suggestion, but he doesn’t argue. Staying upright must be taking all his energy.
I put a hand on his waist and move him out from under the direct path of the water. His skin is cool and hot and utterly, utterly intoxicatingly. Rain after a long drought. Sun-ripened fruit. Sex on a Sunday afternoon.
I step under the spray, attempting to let the icy water splash some sense into me.
Senses controlled, I breathe slowly through my mouth as I squeeze a dollop of shampoo onto my hand and work it through Lucien’s hair. I give my own hair the same treatment, only a lot rougher.
He rocks unsteadily from side to side as he watches me, wearing his nudity like an old hoodie. Like something worn in. Something he’s completely comfortable in.
“Close your eyes,” I tell him as I put one hand around the back of his neck and tilt his head backward with the other.
Water runs through his hair, and I gently chase suds out of silky spun gold. Foam pools at our feet and we bump into each other as we shuffle around in the confined space. It takes a little more effort not to hiss from the cold everytime the spray hits me. Lucien notices and smiles. His perfect lips curl up, more on the right side than the left, and his eyes dance with a slight trace of menace.
There’s a sponge in the shower, hanging from a hook on the wall, but I opt to use my hands to wash him because part of being an alpha and taking care of an omega is being thorough.
Everyone knows that.
His skin is slippery and wet. Warm to the touch, despite the cold water. I wash every inch of his front, except for his dick. I wash around it, careful not to touch him directly. He winces when I get close, eyes widening in trepidation, but he stands still for me all the same.
I like that. It speaks to a base part of me. It tells me there’s part of Lucien that understands he’s mine. Mine to take care of. It tells me he trusts me. Or he’s starting to anyway.
“Turn around,” I tell him, slinging an arm loosely around his waist to support him.
I soap his back, legs, and perfect buttocks before taking the shower nozzle off its hook to rinse him off when I start feeling woozy.
“No,” he whines softly, clamping a hand over his hole. “Don’t.” It takes me a second to understand what he means. “Don’t wash it away….” His voice is small and unbearably sexy. Soft, possibly embarrassed about what he’s saying. “I like it. I want to keep it inside me.”
Lust, and something heavier and deeper, rolls through me. My heart squeezes as though a fist is reaching into my chest, crushing the life out of me, and resuscitating me at the same time.
