Page 128 of The Good Boys Club

He rolled his eyes. “And who’s going to clean up the bathroom floor after you’ve pissed all over it? I meant let’s do it in the shower.”

“Sure, but like I said, I can’t stand up. There will be untold horrors not only on the bathroom floor, but all over your boots if you don’t move outta the way.”

Cian didn’t step out of the blast zone. Instead, he held out his palm for me. “Flex that sphincter for just a few seconds and then go and sit on the toilet.”

I nodded. I could do that. I clenched my butt as tightly as a butt could be clenched, and took his hand, getting to my feet as though it were my first time standing. Cian guided me to the toilet, and I sat down, bunching my tail over my hip and into my lap. My thigh muscles burned. I clamped my bum hole closed like my life depended on it. Then he made to leave the room.

“Where are you going?!” I yelled.

“I thought you might want some privacy.”

“When have I ever wanted privacy? You did this to me. You must witness the consequences of your actions.”

He returned.

“Thank yewww,” I said, squeezing as much sarcasm into those two words as possible. And then I unclenched my muscles, and holy gods, maybe I should have accepted his offer of privacy. “When will it end? How is there this much?”

Cian bit back his smile. “How are you feeling?” he asked, kneeling in front of me.

I buried my face in my hands. “Like I’ve been rawdogged by a wolf shifter.”

He snorted.

“I think it’s all out now.” I gave another push. Still more in there. What the fuck?

“We’ll clean you up in the shower, okay?”

While I was dripping out the last of Cian’s mess, he stripped off his pissy boots and socks, and his cords and underpants until he was also naked.

“Do you need help standing?” he asked.

“No,” I said, because it was the truth. My asshole was sore, my knees were raw, and my quads were gelatinous, but I could move just fine on my own.

However . . . “I mean yes. I need your help. Take care of me, Daddy.”

Cian huffed and held his hands out for me. I winced as I stood. It was painful, in more than one place . . . and icky. So fucking icky and wet and gross.

He unbuckled my collar, letting it drop to the ground. I’d forgotten I had it on. Then he took his glasses and smart watch off, and placed them on the little shelf above the sink. He climbed into the shower cubicle, kneeling in the same spot I had earlier.

We didn’t speak, didn’t need words. Cian closed his eyes like he was getting ready to sleep, then tilted his head back, and I marked him the same way he had marked me.

Only this time it wasn’t electric with sexual charge. This time I wasn’t barely holding myself together, and neither was he. It was actually . . . tender.

When I finished, I knelt next to him, straight in the runoff.

“We should wait for it to dry at least, and then we can wash,” I whispered. “Are you cold?”

Cian shook his head. His gaze fell to my lips, and I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I kissed him. Butterfly soft and savouring. I tried not to breathe in too deeply in case the smell of me on him triggered the desperation in my inner wolf. We were both sporting semis, but they went ignored as we stood and began washing.

Hot water sluiced from our bodies. We took it in turns to dip under the stream and rinse the lather off. In between our regular cleansing routines, we paused to kiss, but nothing more. Not even to speak.

Once clean, we climbed into bed. I could smell my scent on Cian as he cuddled up behind me, big spooning me for a change, but again, I didn’t breathe him in. I didn’t want to ruin the moment.

This beautiful, serene, achingly tender moment.

Outside the window, the sky had lightened, with its eerie morning greys bleaching the colour from everything else. Birds were beginning their dawn fanfare. The curtain flapped against the wall.

I’d never felt more peaceful, more sore, or more loved.

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