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I turned toward my bed, and my legs finally reported the entire night at once, all of it in one long tremor. I was still half naked, streaked with the dried evidence of my own maintenance, holding a used towel.

Water ran briefly in the bathroom.

I turned, and Leander came back with a fresh towel, one end of it dark with warm water. He took my wrist and wiped my hand clean, finger by finger. Then my stomach. Then my thigh, erasing the smear of his own claiming touch.

“I can do that,” I said.

“I know you can.”

He was still angry but his hands were careful, so I stood still and let myself be handled, and the last of the night’s static drained out through the points where the warm cloth touched.

He steered me to my bed with a hand on the back of my neck and pushed me down onto the mattress. He dragged the blanket up over me, and from him that was tenderness.

“Get some sleep, Felix,” he said. “We have a goalkeeper to ruin.”

CHAPTER 22

LEANDER

The wake-up alarm screamed at 06:00, vibrating through the metal frame of the bed.

I had been awake since 05:40, because my body kept Sector 9 hours no matter how much upholstery the Academy put under it, and I had spent those twenty minutes listening to Felix breathe evenly. None of the small sounds I had learned to sleep through in this room, the counting under his breath, the rustle of a man rearranging himself. The night had held. I lay there with one arm behind my head and let myself claim the credit.

Usually Felix jolted upright at the first pulse, frantic to beat the clock, on his feet before the sound finished. Today he lingered.

I watched him from my bed as he sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. His hair was a mess, sleep-mussed and soft, erasing the edges of the Ice Prince, and he blinked at the digital clock. Then his gaze slid to me, lidded with the memory of the night before.

“You slept,” I said.

“Yes.” His voice was rough with sleep. It sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the morning chill.

He stood up, naked, and for the first time since we had moved in, he didn’t rush to cover himself. He stretched, arms reaching high above his head, and the movement pulled the skin tight over his ribs, elongating the defined muscle of his torso.

I couldn’t help but stare.

He was built like a racehorse, all fast-twitch muscle and elegant lines. The definition of his abs was sharp enough to cut, tapering into the V that disappeared between his thighs, and he was pale and smooth where I was scarred and rough, but nothing about him read soft.

Felix caught me looking.

He dropped his arms slowly, rested his hands on his hips, and let a small arrogant smirk touch the corner of his mouth before he turned, offering the long line of his back and the tight curve of his ass as he sauntered toward the bathroom. He knew exactly what he was doing, the motherfucker.

Inside the glass box he turned on the shower, letting the steam frost the pane into a blur of peach. He pressed a hand against the glass and leaned close until the silhouette of his body branded itself against the barrier, a taunt manufactured just for me.

My mouth went dry as my cock stirred heavy and interested against the waistband of my boxers. He had become a problem, and watching him move under the water, I decided he was a problem I wanted to solve. Later. Thoroughly.

He finished, stepping out with a towel wrapped low around his waist, water dripping from his collarbone and tracking a slow path down his chest.

“Enjoying the show, Regillen?” he asked.

“I’ve seen better,” I lied.

He came closer, dripping on the floor between the beds, and waited. He knew what he had done to me at that glass, and he wanted it said out loud.

“The handprint was a nice touch,” I said. “Very subtle.”

“I thought so.”

“Do it again tonight.”