"Hmm?"
"We need a shower. We're disgusting."
"Speak for yourself."
"You're covered in cum."
"And whose fault is that?"
I pull out, both of us wincing at the sensation, and stand on unsteady legs. He looks wrecked. Fucked out and satisfied, bite marks scattered across his throat and chest, scratches raking down his sides. My marks. My claim.
The possessiveness of that thought should scare me. It doesn't.
"Come on." I hold out my hand. "Shower. Now."
He takes my hand and lets me pull him up.
The bathroom is small and cramped, barely enough room for one person, let alone two men our size. We end up pressed together under the spray, elbows knocking against tile, shoulders jostling for space.
"This is ridiculous," Asher mutters.
Ignoring him, I reach around him for the soap and my arm brushes his chest. He sucks in a breath. We're both oversensitive, skin raw from the fucking, and every touch feels amplified.
"Here." I squirt soap into my palm and start washing his back without really thinking about it. The scratches I left are raised and red, and he hisses when I run my fingers over them.
"You did a number on me."
"You asked for it."
"I did." He turns his head, looking at me over his shoulder. "I liked it."
I don't know what to say to that. So I don't say anything. Just keep washing him, methodical, impersonal. Like this is normal. Like I wash the men I fuck all the time.
I don't. I've never done this before. Never stayed after, never shared a shower, never touched someone with anything other than violence or lust.
This feels different. It feels like tenderness, and I don't know what to do with that.
When his back is clean, he turns and takes the soap from my hand. "My turn."
I let him. Stand still while he washes my chest, my arms, my stomach. His hands are rough with calluses, but his touch is careful, especially where he scratched me raw.
"You have more scars than I do," he observes.
"The Silent was thorough in their torture methods."
"The pits weren't gentle either."
"No." I look at him, water streaming down both our faces. "They weren't."
We stand there, just looking at each other. Two men built for violence, stripped bare in more ways than one. His eyes are dark and steady, and I see the question in them.
What happens now?
I don't have an answer. So I give him the only thing I can.
I lean in and kiss him.
It's different from the kisses before. This is reverence. My hand comes up to cup his jaw, thumb stroking along his cheekbone, and I feel him melt into me. Just for a second. Just long enough to make my chest ache.
