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What the fuck had he done?
What the fuck was going on?
Son of a bitch.
Son of a bitch.
It was all he could do to hold his weight from her as he found they’d both collapsed to the floor of the shower. Warm water still flowed around them, though the heat that had filled it earlier was absent.
And he needed to get his ass off his mate and turn off the water before she became chilled.
The thought of that actually had him moving. Every instinct inside him warned him that protecting her, no matter how slight the danger or effect on her health, was of paramount importance.
What did she do to him?
This wasn’t Mating Heat. Mating Heat was the inability to be apart. It was the need to fuck, to procreate, no matter the obstacles.
This wasn’t Mating Heat. It was the animal’s response to the man’s automatic thoughts about a woman he was trying desperately not to love. And he’d already failed.
Forcing his muscles from the limpest stage they had likely ever known, Rule moved to his feet, quickly turned off the water, then knelt to help his mate from the shower tiles.
“Just go ’way,” she mumbled as he lifted her into his arms before placing her on the wide built-in shower seat and grabbing a towel.
She slumped against the corner, eyes closed, her long hair hanging in sodden ringlets around her face and dripping water down her breasts and on her thighs. Her head rested against the corner of the shower, the green of her eyes gleaming between her lowered lashes.
“Get dressed or something.” Her voice was still sleepy, lazy, no doubt the reason why she surprised him when her hand flashed out and jerked the towel from his grip.
This was a bad thing, he thought as she draped the material over her to cover her breasts and thighs. No one else, no matter who, no matter the circumstances, could have jerked that towel from him so easily. Never had he allowed his guard to drop to that point.
That didn’t excuse the fact that she had moved much more quickly, and with a precision no civilian could possess, to ensure that she acquired the towel from him. And she didn’t even notice the fact that she had moved so easily, and with a training he was certain she wouldn’t want revealed.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” The smell of her distrust was offensive.
Rule grimaced. The animal was still far too close to the surface, the pleasure of moments before still lingering too strongly within his senses.
“Let’s get you dried off, hotshot,” he told her, kneeling in front of her and taking the towel from her, despite the struggle she gave him.
Starting with her hair, he blotted the excess water from it gently, aware long moments later that she was growing frustrated with his ministrations. The long, water-heavy ringlets were particularly pretty, though. The straight effect she sometimes achieved was nice as well, but he was fond of the waves and little curls. Drying it too quickly, too roughly could cause the strands to frizz. He knew she wouldn’t like that. He’d never seen her hair frizzy or at any time less than silken and healthy looking.
“Rule, what the hell are you up to?” She was watching him with far more distrust than even moments before.
“I’ve just been drying your hair.” Finishing the last of the long curls, he brushed them gently behind her shoulder as he evaded her attempts to grab the towel back.
“Fine, you dried it.” She glared back at him. “Now give me the damned towel. I’ll dry myself.”