Chapter 4: Scrubbed Raw
The silence after the door clicked shut was worse than the noise. It was a vacuum, filling instantly with the roar of Ben’s own thoughts. He lay paralyzed in the sullied sheets, the scent of sex and Alpha clinging to him like a second skin. Jaxson was right. It was in the walls, in the fabric, in the very air he tried to suck into his lungs. It was inside him.
A violent tremor shook him, unrelated to the heat—a pure, shuddering wave of revulsion. At Jaxson. At himself.
He stumbled from the bed, his legs threatening to buckle. The floor was cold under his feet. He needed it gone. All of it.
The bathroom light was a harsh, buzzing fluorescence after the gloom of the bedroom. He locked the door behind him, the cheap bolt sliding home with a feeble click. It was a meaningless gesture. If Jaxson wanted in, the flimsy wood would offer no more resistance than Ben’s own body had.
He turned the shower on full, steam billowing instantly, clouding the mirror and the world beyond the shower curtain. He didn’t wait for it to heat up. He stepped under the stinging spray, the water too hot, punishing his skin. He grabbed a rough washcloth and a bar of soap that smelled sharply of pine, something abrasive and industrial, nothing like vanilla or sin.
He scrubbed.
He scrubbed at his throat where Jaxson’s mouth had been, at his shoulders where heavy hands had gripped, at his stomach where he’d been held down. He scrubbed between his legs until the tender skin burned, trying to erase the feeling of being stretched, of being filled, the phantom ache of a knot that had swelled inside him. The soap foamed pink—diluted blood from his furious ministrations.
But the scent wouldn’t lift.
It rose with the steam, his scent mixed with Jaxson’s, a maddening perfume that made his head swim. His skin was red and raw, but the smell was baked into his pores. He dropped the washcloth, bracing his forearms against the slick tiles, letting the water sluice over his bowed back. He was crying, he realized. Sobs混在水中, silent and wrenching.
Another wave was coming. He could feel it coiling in his gut, a different kind of heat from the shower’s—deeper, chemical, undeniable. His knees weakened. The empty, frantic need began to pulse again, a throbbing beat between his legs that had nothing to do with the abrasive cleaning. His hole clenched around nothing, remembering, wanting.
“No,” he whispered to the draining water. “No, no, no.”
He fumbled for the shower knob, turning it to cold. Icy needles assaulted him, shocking his system. He gasped, teeth chattering, but the internal fire merely banked, waiting.
Then he heard it. Not a knock. A footfall in the living room, heavy and deliberate.
Every muscle in Ben’s body locked. He held his breath, the only sound the drip of water from the showerhead and the frantic hammering of his own heart.
The footsteps stopped outside the bathroom door.
A long, slow inhalation filtered through the gap under the door. He was scenting the air. Scenting him.
“Ben.” Jaxson’s voice was low, a vibration through the wood. It wasn’t a question.
Ben didn’t answer. He pressed a wet hand over his mouth.
“Your heat’s back. I can smell it. You’re drowning in it.” A pause. “And you’re trying to wash me away with cheap soap.”
The doorknob turned. Stopped against the lock.
Ben backed up until his spine hit the cold, wet tiles. He watched the knob. It jiggled once, lightly.
Then came the impact. A single, tremendous kick that splintered the wood around the lock with a sound like a gunshot. The door flew inward, slamming against the wall.
Jaxson filled the doorway, steam curling around his broad shoulders. His blue eyes found Ben instantly, pinning him in place more effectively than any physical hold. He took in the scene: Ben’s naked, scrubbed-red body shivering under the cold spray, the raw fear in his green eyes, the undeniable scent of rising, desperate heat pouring off him.
“Told you,” Jaxson said, his voice a graveled rumble. He stepped into the bathroom, kicking the broken door shut behind him. The small space shrank further, dominated by his presence.
“Get out,” Ben tried to snarl, but it came out a strained plea.
Jaxson ignored him. He was already pulling his shirt over his head, dropping it to the wet floor. His movements were methodical, predatory. He unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft hiss. “You think a locked door stops this?” He stepped out of his jeans, kicked them aside. He was fully erect, his cock thick and heavy, a blatant threat and promise. “Nothing stops this.”
He stepped into the shower, crowding Ben against the tiles. The cold water hit his heated skin, and he didn’t even flinch. He caged Ben with his arms, his palms flat on the wall on either side of Ben’s head. The steam thickened around them.
“You smell like pine and panic,” Jaxson murmured, leaning in to drag his nose along Ben’s damp throat. “And under it… you still smell like mine. You reek of need, Omega. Your hole is weeping for it. I can smell that, too.”
“I hate you,” Ben spat, twisting his face away.
Jaxson caught his jaw, forcing his head back. “I know.” His thumb traced Ben’s lower lip. “Your hate makes your cunt wetter. It always has.”
The crude word sent a jolt through Ben. He tried to knee Jaxson, a futile, weak movement. Jaxson caught his thigh, hoisting it up around his hip in one smooth motion. The new angle opened Ben up, and the head of Jaxson’s cock pressed against his entrance, a blunt, unforgiving pressure through the cool water.
“No condom this time,” Jaxson growled into his ear. “I want to feel you. Every hot, clenching inch.”
Ben cried out as Jaxson pushed inside. It was a brutal, uninterrupted invasion. The cold water did nothing to soothe the burn of the stretch. He was still tight, and Jaxson was huge, filling him in one deep, relentless thrust that stole the breath from his lungs and pressed a scream from his throat.
Jaxson didn’t give him a second to adjust. He withdrew and slammed back in, setting a rough, pounding rhythm right there against the shower wall. The tiles were cold and slick against Ben’s back and ass; Jaxson’s body was a furnace against his front. The juxtaposition was maddening.
“You’ll never wash me out,” Jaxson grunted, each thrust jolting Ben’s body. Water sprayed around them, slicking skin, mixing with the sweat and pre-come and slick. “I’m in your veins. I’m in your scent. This cunt”—he drove deeper, hitting a spot that made Ben’s vision white out—“it knows its Alpha. It fucking milks me.”
Ben’s hands scrabbled against the slick tiles, finding no purchase. His other leg threatened to give way; Jaxson hooked an arm under it, lifting him entirely, pinning him completely, fucking up into him with devastating, precise strokes. Ben was completely at his mercy, impaled, suspended, his own cock trapped and leaking between their stomachs.
“Say it,” Jaxson demanded, his breath hot against Ben’s ear. His pace was becoming erratic, harder, deeper. “Who does this belong to?”
Ben shook his head, tears mixing with the shower spray. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Jaxson changed his angle, pistoning his hips with brutal efficiency, nailing that perfect, devastating spot inside Ben with every stroke. Pleasure, sharp and catastrophic, exploded up Ben’s spine. His nails dug into Jaxson’s shoulders, drawing half-moons in the skin.
“Who fucks you full?” Jaxson persisted, his voice a ragged growl. His teeth grazed Ben’s bonding gland again, not biting, just the terrifying, thrilling threat of it.
The orgasm built, a tsunami of heat and humiliation and raw, physical bliss. It tore through Ben’s resistance. A broken, guttural sound was wrenched from his throat.
“Jaxson!” he screamed, not as an answer, but as a surrender to the sensation tearing him apart.
It was enough. With a possessive snarl, Jaxson buried himself to the hilt and came. Ben felt the hot, pulsing rush inside him, filling him, marking him in the most primitive way. The feeling triggered his own climax, a weaker, shaking release that left him sobbing.
Jaxson held him there, pinned against the wall, as he emptied himself, his own body shuddering with the force of it. The water began to run cold again, shocking them both back into the dim reality of the broken bathroom.
Slowly, Jaxson lowered Ben’s shaking legs. Ben slumped, his strength gone, his forehead falling against Jaxson’s damp chest. He could feel Jaxson’s seed leaking out of him, a warm trickle down his inner thigh, impossible to wash away.
Jaxson’s arms came around him, not in an embrace, but in a steadying hold. He reached behind Ben and turned off the shower. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by their harsh breathing and the drip of the tap.
Jaxson pulled back just enough to look at Ben’s face. His expression was unreadable—a mask of stern Alpha satisfaction, but his eyes held something darker, more complicated. He looked at Ben’s abused lips, his tear-streaked face, the red marks on his skin.
He said nothing. He grabbed a towel, rough and thin, and dried Ben off with a startling, impersonal efficiency. Then he dried himself.
He left Ben leaning against the sink, staring at his own shattered reflection in the fogged mirror. Jaxson pulled on his jeans, not bothering with underwear, and picked up his shirt.
At the ruined doorway, he stopped. He didn’t look back.
“Next time,” he said, his voice flat and final, “it won’t be a shower. And it won’t be a choice.”
Then he was gone, leaving Ben alone with the cooling steam, the dripping water, and the undeniable, liquid proof of his possession seeping slowly down Ben’s leg.