Chapter 13
Branson
“Come on,” I say, pulling him up by the hand in a businesslike way.
I think it’s important to remind myself of my role here.
I’m the alpha to Lucien’s omega. Yes, it’s my job to fuck his brains out, but it’s also my job to take charge of him.
He’s not himself right now, and I must take care of him.
Physical care of Lucien, not just his hole.
I need to keep him hydrated, change the sheets, get him bathed and showered, and things like that.
And I need to do all of those things in a non-predatory way.
That’s my job. And while I’ve had a brief blip, where I seem to have forgotten my responsibilities, I’m going to do better, starting right now.
“Ugh.” He makes a face and tries to make himself heavy. “Do I really have to?”
“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 being dirty.” He drags the word out and rolls the R until 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 his touch, 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 every time 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.
“You like having it inside you?” I ask dumbly.
Of course he likes it. He’s an omega in heat.
It’s obvious he likes it. He needs it. His biology demands it.
It’s just that when he says it, that’s not how I hear it.
When he says it, I hear it as something specific to me.
When he says it, it’s not just cum that he likes. It’s not even alpha cum he likes.
It’s my cum.
My seed he wants inside him.
My DNA he needs.
Reluctantly, I take his hand and move it aside. He fights me, or he tries to. His hand finds its way back to his ass crease as soon as I let go of it, and the other one joins it.
Oh, the sight of him like that. The way he looks with wet hair and wet skin, cupping his little asshole, trying to keep my loads inside him.
It’s the sexiest thing imaginable, but it’s more than that.
It’s also adorable. So fucking adorable, I want to squish him.
I want to squeeze him. I want to crush his soft places and mark them up so bad that everyone he meets will take one look at him and know he’s mine.
It takes a couple of minutes, and another trip under the frigid water to remind myself what I’m trying to achieve. Physical care of Lucien. Cleansing his body.
I’m as bad as he is because I hate the thought of washing myself off him. Out of him. I hate it. It feels like a loss. A physical loss.
“Don’t worry, Lucy,” I tell him, voice thick and husky. “I’ll put lots more in you.”
I’m behind him, so I can only see a sliver of his face. Just the side. Just a tiny bunching of his cheek when he hears my words. “Do you promise?”
“I promise.” I say it with a ridiculous, dripping sincerity that embarrasses me. I say it like a serious matter. A matter of life or death. A vow. A commitment. An attestation from times gone by.
He considers what I’ve said, mulling it over for a beat. Then he moves his hands and pushes his ass out. Fuck me, that ass. Sweet Jesus, those cheeks.
I hold the nozzle near the small of his back and let the water run down his crack.
It’s enough for a rinse, but not for a thorough wash, and I’m nothing, nothing, if not thorough when it comes to Lucien’s ass.
So I slide my fingers gently down the valley between his firm cheeks, chasing rivulets of water as they meander downward.
His body is warm where my fingers are. Impossibly hot.
Wet from the water and his heat.
Wet from his heat and from me.
“Is this okay?” I ask when I remember myself. “Or do you want to do this yourself?”
He leans forward, resting his cheek on the tiled wall in front of him. “You. I want you to do it.”
His voice is killing me. I swear, it’s killing me. It’s so sweet and sexy that I can’t feel my face.
I reach down and part his cheeks, following the spray of water with my fingers.
Lucien shudders, shoulders shaking from side to side. “More.”
I ease my finger down lower, watching as his spine arches and his back tenses in anticipation.
In expectation. In submission. A low growl swells under my sternum.
I try to stifle it as I circle his rim with the pad of my middle finger.
It’s a light touch, barely there, but it draws a soft hiss from him.
I do it again, and this time, a gush of warm liquid spills from him and coats my fingers.
It’s him or remnants of me. I can’t tell which.
His legs shake violently when I do it, so I hang up the shower nozzle and wrap my left arm around his waist to bear most of his weight.
I stroke him again. His rim is soft and supple, blushing deep pink with clear signs of use.
Clear signs that I’ve been there, that he’s opened his legs for me and let me have my way with him.
I watch, transfixed, as my fingers caress him. Things that aren’t Lucien fade. Sounds that he isn’t making fall silent. My vision narrows, sharpening in focus, as a deep, desperate surge makes my dick stiffen.