Page 32 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Can I take it off?" I ask carefully. "Before you, um, drown? We can keep the light off. I won't look. I just... I don't want you to pass out on me."

Or suffer, I think, but I don't add that, because he doesn't seem to mind suffering.

He shakes his head.

Okay. I won't push it.

When the last of the shampoo rinses clean and he straightens, I stretch up on my toes and press a kiss to his scarred collarbone. It's the highest point I can reach without him bending down.

"My turn," I say lightly. "Unless you want us to just stand under the water all day?"

He manages a huff and shifts aside, making room, and I step under the spray his body was blocking before. The warm water hits my face and I tilt my head back, letting it wash through my hair, down my neck, over my chest.

I can feel him watching me.

"You can touch me," I tell him. "I want you to."

His hands find my waist first, and then they start to move, still hesitant, as if he still isn't sure this is okay. Following the curve of my hips, the dip of my lower back, the softness of my stomach.

I arch into his touch with a soft sound I can't and don't try to hold back. His hands are massive and rough with scar tissue, callused from years of gripping a hockey stick, and they feel good.

I want to make sure he knows that.

He reaches for something on the shelf. I hear the click of a bottle, the wet sound of soap being worked between his palms. Then his lathered hands are on my shoulders, sliding down my arms.

He's washing me.

The way I washed him.

His movements are slow, almost reverent. He works the soap across my shoulder blades, massaging my upper back. My head falls forward with a soft purr as the tension releases.

"Wraith," I breathe, and his hands stutter against my skin. His name in my mouth does something to him, even as stressed as he is. I can feel the catch in his breathing, the way his whole body leans closer, then pulls away.

I have other ideas.

I turn in his arms, pressing my wet body against his, and feel his heart kick against my chest. Fast and hard and alive. My hands grip his muscled shoulders and I tilt my face up toward where I know his is.

"I like your hands on me," I whisper. "More."

His hands slide lower, hesitantly. Over my hips, the curve of my thighs. When his thumb brushes near my inner groin, my breath hitches and I dig my nails into his shoulders.

He nuzzles into the crook of my neck, and I feel the drenched mask slipping.

And I feel him reach up to fix it, too.

"Wraith, let me," I whisper.

He freezes as my hands slide up behind me to the soaking wet mask clinging to his lower face. The fabric flutters slightly with his breath. He's having to keep his mouth open slightly to breathe through it.

"Can I…?"

He doesn't stop me.

But when I reach the edge and start pulling it down, he pulls back, turning his face away. The movement makes the mask come down, the wet fabric pooling at his throat.

"See? It's fine. I can't even see in the dark."

A knock at the bathroom door makes us both jolt.