Page 5 of Healing the Alpha

I watch the water run in rivulets down his broad shoulders to distract myself from the sting, his muscles shifting as he washes me. We may have showered together a thousand times at the gym, but that feels a far cry from this; he’s so close that his scent would be triggering every aggressive instinct in my alpha brain if we weren’t as close as family, but instead, it’s just hard not to notice how sculpted he is, the lines of his torso impressively defined.

It’s not something I’d usually think about, but I guess being a little more out of shape than usual is making me hyper-aware of his body. And maybe not having been able to touch myself for the last two weeks, let alone been touched by anyone else, is making me extra-sensitive, because every slow, firm swipe of the cloth sends a bizarre, completely inappropriate shiver across the surface of my skin.

I close my eyes and try to focus on the sound of the water swirling down the drain and the sharp sting of the soap on my wounds, but the heat and the steam and Max’s distinctive, warm ginger scent overwhelm my senses instead. His hand is warm and certain as he moves lower, over my abs and the curves of my hips, and lower still—

It only takes the briefest, most innocent flash of wet friction for heat to pool rapidly between my legs.

No. Nonono. Absolutely not.

I try to step back, angle myself away, but my balance is shaky, and Max pulls me back toward him with a hand on my waist to keep me steady. The knuckles of the hand holding the washcloth brush against the rapidly forming bulge in my soaked boxers, and suddenly they offer no modesty whatsoever as the water molds the thin fabric around the outline of my erection.

My breath hitches. Max freezes. All the blood that isn’t in my cock rushes to my cheeks.

“Ky—”

“Don’t,” I cut him off. “Don’t say anything. Let’s just turn the water off and not make eye contact for the rest of my life. I haven’t been able to jerk off for two weeks, that’s all.”

Max doesn’t turn off the water. His hand is still hovering dangerously close to my cock, which is somehow still rock solid despite my total mortification. “Two weeks?”

“Yep,” I say bitterly. “I’ve been having wet dreams again, like I’m fourteen fucking years old. A strong breeze could get me hard right now.”

“You really know how to flatter a guy,” he laughs, but it’s weak. When I dare to steal a glance at him, his eyes are glued to my boxers. “Two weeks is brutal.”

“Tell me about it. So let’s just forget about this, okay?”

Max chews his lip. Then he turns away, and for a moment, I think it’s over. That he’s turning off the tap and getting the hell out of this shower stall and away from the thickness of my scent. It must be driving him nuts, after all. But then he adds another pump of soap to the washcloth, and turns back to me.

“It took me a week to get you in this shower,” he mutters, his voice tight. “I’m finishing the job.”

“What do you—” I start, but I cut myself off with a sharp hiss as he runs the washcloth over the outside of my boxers, tracing the entire length of me. He’s gentle, but the movement is enough to send a current of heat twisting through my lower half.

“I’m just washing you,” he says softly, his eyes flickering up to meet mine in a silent question. “Just helping you shower, right?”

His fingers twitch at the base of my cock. I swallow thickly, watching his pupils dilate. “Yeah,” I breathe. “Okay. Just showering. No big deal.”

“No big deal,” he repeats distantly.

He moves the cloth over the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, the back of his hand brushing against the underside of my balls with every movement and sending veins of soap suds running down my thighs.

I have to bite back a moan when he glides it back up my shaft, the friction so, so achingly good, but also not quite enough. He must catch the edge of frustration in my exhale, because he hooks his thumb around the waistband of my boxers, glances at me for permission, and tugs them down when I give an almost imperceptible nod.

I half expect Max to make a stupid joke like we always do, some comment about how he’s bigger to break the tension, but he doesn’t.

He lets out a shaky breath when my cock springs out, thick and painfully hard from over two weeks of neglect, and I’m grateful for the shower spray for washing away the precum that’s leaking from the tip. The arousal building in my balls has a sharp, burning edge to it, and when Max lets the washcloth fall to the floor with a wet slap, it almost feels like my stomach is cramping; the anticipation is so strong.

His hand is slick with soap when he finally makes contact with the hot, bare flesh of my cock, and the intensity of it is enough to make me whimper. He still has a hand on my waist, and his grip tightens, holding me still as my legs go weak.

“Ah—” I hiss as he circles his fist around my shaft, sliding all the way down to my balls in one smooth movement. When he comes back up and his palm smooths over my sensitive crown, my hips kick forward of their own volition, heat pulsing along my length.

Another rough noise leaves my throat, a growl rumbling from my chest instinctively as my orgasm builds startlingly fast. The sensation of his hand on me is overwhelming; the contrast of his rough skin slicked by the warm lather, every movement so agonizingly slow and careful, like he’s still keeping up the pretense of washing me. Thoroughly.

I try to find purchase on his upper arm with my left hand, but my sprained wrist won’t let me, slipping when I try to dig my fingers into his skin.

“Careful,” he murmurs, holding me steady, his hand still working me. “I’ve got you.”

Max shifts slightly in front of me, and for the first time I notice the bulge in his own boxers. It was obscured by the dark fabric, but there’s no mistaking the rigid outline of him straining against the elastic when he moves, and I’m suddenly all too aware of the arousal bleeding through both of our scents, heady and powerful even in the steamy shower cubicle.

And even though Max hasn’t changed his slow, slippery pace, even though he’s not flicking his wrist or squeezing my balls or talking dirty in my ear like the omegas I usually sleep with would do, I’m suddenly right there. On the edge with nowhere to go but over, the pleasure tightening around my lungs and burning a hole in my gut.