He stood up, towering over me, water streaming down his face. He cupped my jaw, his thumbs sweeping over my cheeks.
"Tessa," he breathed.
Then he kissed me.
It started soft, a tasting, a reassurance. But the moment our mouths connected, the spark flared. It wasn't the raging inferno of the heat spike, but it was hungry. It was the possessiveness of a man who had claimed something valuable and wasn't about to put it back in the vault.
He walked me backward until my shoulder blades hit the cool, wet wall of the shower.
"Anders," I gasped, breaking the kiss as his hands slid down my wet ribs to grip my waist.
"I can still smell him on you," Anders growled, burying his face in my neck, inhaling deeply. "Simon. And Daniel. You smell like the whole pack."
"Is that... bad?"
"It's maddening," he corrected, nipping at the junction of my neck and shoulder. "And it's perfect. But right now, I want you to remember who locked you down."
He lifted me.
It was effortless. He hooked his hands under my thighs and hoisted me up, pinning me against the tiles. I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively, the wet skin creating a friction that was electric.
"Hold on," he warned.
He didn't prep me this time. He didn't need to. My body was still open, still receptive, still humming with the need for him.
He thrust into me.
I cried out; the sound echoing off the stone walls, muffled by the spray of the water. He filled me completely, stretching the sore muscles, pressing against the deepest part of me.
"Mine," he hissed against my ear. "You are mine, Tessa Kane. My author. My Omega."
He began to move, quick and punishing. It wasn't the slow, tectonic shifting of Daniel or the artistic exploration of Simon. It was rhythmic, efficient, and devastatingly intense. He slammed into me, driving my back against the wall with every thrust, knocking the air from my lungs.
"Anders, please," I begged, my head falling back, water streaming into my mouth. "It's too deep."
"It's exactly deep enough," he countered, grabbing my hair to pull my head back, kissing me hard, swallowing my moan.
His hands gripped my buttocks, spreading me, angling me to take him deeper. The water sluiced between our joined bodies, hot and slick. The scent of bourbon exploded in the steam, intoxicating me.
I forgot the soreness. I forgot the future. I forgot everything except the sharp, stinging reality of his authority.
He came quickly, a harsh, guttural shout tearing from his throat as he drove into me one last time and held it there, trembling against the wall. I unraveled around him, my internal muscles clamping down on his length, wringing the release from him.
He lowered his forehead to mine, both of us panting, our hearts hammering in sync against our ribs.
"Sustainable," he rasped, the word nonsensical in the moment.
"What?" I breathed.
He let me slide down slowly until my feet touched the tile. He didn't let go, keeping his arms looped around me, supporting my weight as my legs threatened to give out.
"This," he said, gesturing vaguely to the steam, to us. "Us. It's sustainable. The data supports it."
I let out a wet, startled laugh. "You're analyzing the data of shower sex?"
"I am analyzing the long-term viability of the pack dynamic," he corrected, though a small, rare smile touched the corner of his mouth. "And the projections are favorable."
He turned off the water. The silence rushed back in, but it felt cleaner now. Lighter.
