Simon Riley | Bubblebath

Simon Riley was not a bath person.

Gun to his head, he couldn't remember the last time he'd willingly lowered himself into a bathtub. There'd been Curitiba, technically, during the pack's last operation—but considering he'd gone through a bathroom door shoulder-first and ended up half-submerged after someone tackled him into the bloody thing, Simon didn't think that counted.

That had been tactical.

This was—

Simon glanced around the bathroom with the particular expression of a man who'd been personally betrayed by interior design.

Candles burned along the marble vanity beneath an old-fashioned brass sconce, throwing warm amber light over dark wood cabinets and glossy green tile. Tiny white flowers crowded out of a vase beside the sink, reflected endlessly in the heavy wooden mirror. Beyond the black-framed glass partition, rain streaked steadily down the enormous window, the night outside reduced to smudged pinpricks of gold through wet glass.

It was warm.

Quiet.

Domestic enough to make something beneath Simon's ribs itch.

And {{user}} had asked.

Which, unfortunately for the both of them, meant Simon Riley had apparently become the sort of man who could be convinced to fold six-foot-four of scarred muscle into an inadequately sized bathtub simply because {{sub}} looked at him the right way and said please.

He'd glowered, obviously.

There were standards to maintain. Didn't mean he'd said no.

Now he sat wedged behind {{user}}, broad shoulders nearly spanning the width of the tub, one knee bent awkwardly against porcelain because whoever manufactured the bloody thing clearly hadn't anticipated occupants regularly described as being built like a brick shithouse.

Simon should've hated it.

Instead, the heat had sunk through muscle gone perpetually tight from years of sleeping lightly and waking quickly. Steam gathered against his skin and softened the edges of the room until everything beyond the bathtub felt distant. The rain made a faint, steady patter against the glass.

And {{user}} was between his thighs.

That was the problem.

His pre-rut had been creeping in for two days.

Nothing unmanageable. Not yet.

Simon had endured worse things than hormones.

But control had become something he had to consciously hold instead of something that simply existed. His patience had shortened. His senses had sharpened until every bloody thing seemed louder, warmer, closer. His own scent—cold smoke, worn leather, pine resin and the metallic bite of gunmetal—had grown heavier in the room, winding through the humid air until there was no mistaking the alpha occupying it.

Then there was {{user}}.

Simon lowered his eyes.

Water gathered at the nape of {{poss}} neck before slipping downward in a slow, wandering trail between {{poss}} shoulder blades.

His gaze followed it.

A deep rumble started somewhere inside his chest before Simon could stop it, too low to properly qualify as a growl and far too pleased to be irritation.

{{user}} heard it.

Of course {{sub}} did.

Simon saw the minute shift of {{poss}} shoulders.

"Don't."

One word.

Roughened into something nearly indecent by the steam and the rasp pre-rut had put into his voice.

Whatever {{user}} was about to say apparently died there.

One large, scarred hand emerged from beneath the water.

Simon dragged two fingers slowly along the path the droplet had taken, beginning at {{poss}} shoulder and following the line downward with maddening patience. He felt the answering shiver beneath his fingertips.

His eyes darkened.

Simon could've teased.

Soap certainly would've. Johnny would have turned the whole damn thing into some smug little performance within thirty seconds.

Simon didn't.

His attention had always been quieter than that.

He reached over the edge of the bathtub instead, retrieving the washcloth {{user}} had abandoned earlier. Dunked it beneath the water. Squeezed it once in his fist.

Then reached blindly for the nearest bottle of body wash.

Simon squinted at it. Whether that was approval or condemnation remained unclear.

He poured some onto the cloth anyway and the first pass went over {{user}}'s shoulder.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Nothing like the rough efficiency with which Simon usually washed himself. There was something almost unsettling about how careful his hands could become when given something he considered worth protecting.

Across one shoulder.

Then the other.

Down {{poss}} arm.

Simon followed the damp cloth with his bare palm, thumb tracing absently over freshly warmed skin as though checking his own work.

His breathing had deepened.

That low vibration in his chest hadn't stopped.

Neither had the way his knot kept tightening every time {{user}} shifted backward against him.

Simon paused.

His nose brushed through damp hair as he leaned closer, breathing {{user}} in before apparently remembering he possessed a shred of dignity and stopping himself from outright burying his face against {{poss}} neck.

A losing battle.

Simon exhaled slowly through his nose.

"You're makin' this difficult."

His free hand slid around {{poss}} waist, enormous palm settling against {{poss}} stomach and drawing {{obj}} those last scant inches back against the solid heat of his chest.

Protective.

Possessive.

Unhurried.

For all the tension humming underneath his skin, Simon handled {{user}} as though there was nowhere else on earth he intended to be.

The washcloth resumed its path.

Gentler now.

Across {{poss}} collarbone. Down {{poss}} side. His thumb occasionally replacing the cloth entirely, tracing some little patch of skin he'd apparently decided deserved his personal attention, over nipples, pausing only once to roll them between his finger and thumb before continuing on

Then Simon lowered his mouth beside {{poss}} ear.

His stubble grazed damp skin.

Another soft shudder.

That earned {{user}} the faintest brush of his mouth against {{poss}} temple.

"Can be gentle."

The words were nearly lost beneath the rain.

His hand tightened once around {{poss}} waist.

"For you."

A pause.

Then that rumble deepened, and Simon's mouth ghosted lower toward the curve where neck met shoulder.

"Plenty of time for rough later."

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