Page 92 of The Puck Contract

"Always," I manage, stepping back to make space.

He steps in, immediately hissing as hot water hits his skin. "Jesus Christ. Are you part lobster? How do you not cook yourself alive in here?"

I laugh, reaching around him to adjust the temperature. "Better?"

"Less third-degree burn, more second-degree," he concedes, moving fully under the spray.

Water sluices down his body, following paths I want to trace with my tongue. His eyes close as he tilts his face up, letting water flatten his chaotic hair. The line of his throat, the relaxed set of his shoulders—it does something to my insides, twists them up in knots I'm not sure I'll ever untangle.

"Pass the shampoo?" he asks, eyes still closed against the spray.

I reach for the bottle, but instead of handing it to him, I squeeze some into my palm. "Turn around."

He opens one eye, suspicious. "Why?"

"Because I want to wash your hair, you paranoid anthropologist."

A slow smile spreads across his face as he complies, presenting his back to me. I step closer, my front nearly touching his back, and work the shampoo into his hair. His immediate groan of pleasure goes straight to my dick.

"That feels amazing," he sighs, leaning back into my touch.

I take my time, massaging his scalp with firm pressure, working from his temples to the nape of his neck. His head lolls forward in surrender. It's oddly intimate, this simple act of care, more vulnerable somehow than the filthy things we've done to each other's bodies.

When I finally guide him back under the spray to rinse, he looks half-asleep again, eyelids heavy, lips parted slightly. I can'tresist leaning in to taste those lips, water cascading around us as we kiss, slow and deep and unhurried.

His hands find my waist, pulling me closer until we're chest to chest, the slick slide of wet skin making us both groan. I can feel him hardening against my thigh, his body responding to mine with an eagerness that still surprises me.

"Your turn," he mumbles against my lips, reaching for the shampoo bottle.

I raise an eyebrow. "You'll need a stepladder, short stack."

He narrows his eyes, jabbing a finger into my chest. "I am five-foot-nine, which is perfectly average, you genetic freak. And you can bend down."

Laughing, I duck my head obligingly, giving him access. His fingers in my hair feel incredible, firm and sure as they work the shampoo into a lather. I close my eyes, surrendering to the sensation.

"You played amazing last night," he says as he works. "That hit in the second period had me holding my breath."

"Hmm," I respond, too blissed out for proper words. "Guy had it coming. Slashed Petrov twice."

"My brave bodyguard," he teases, nails scratching lightly against my scalp in a way that makes me shiver despite the steam.

When he's done, he guides me under the spray, hands gentle as they help rinse the suds away. I straighten up, blinking water from my eyes to find him watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

He shakes his head slightly. "Nothing. Just... this is nice."

The simple statement contains multitudes. This—us, together, caring for each other in this quiet morning moment—is nice. More than nice. It's everything.

I reach for the body wash, pouring some into my palm before setting the bottle aside. "Turn around again?"

He complies without question this time, presenting his back to me once more. I start at his shoulders, working the soap into his skin with firm pressure, feeling knots of tension dissolve under my touch. His head drops forward again, a small sound of pleasure escaping him as I work my way down his spine.

"You're good at this," he muses.

"Hockey players know massage." I press my thumbs into the small of his back. "It's survival."

My hands continue their journey, sliding over the curve of his ass, kneading the firm muscle there. His breath hitches, body going still under my touch. I keep my movements deliberate, clinical almost, despite the fact that my cock is now fully hard, aching for the man in front of me.

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