Chapter 11: Dripping with Desire

At the very end of the hall, past rows of steam-fogged dividers and buckets left behind like abandoned pets, we found it: a lonely wash basin in a patch of relative silence.

The basin itself was an ugly thing—chipped porcelain, a hairline crack veining its side like an old scar—but it was surrounded by just enough open floor space to feel private in a way that wasn’t technically private.

The water pipe above it dripped with the same lazy rhythm as an old man tapping his cane, each droplet plinking into the basin with a sound that could’ve been meditative if you ignored the faint smell of wet soap and skin.

I decided it was perfect.

Not glamorous, but perfect in just the right ways.

I turned to Felix, who was lingering in that way people do when they’re about to be tricked into something unpleasant.

“Sit,” I told him, gesturing to a squat wooden stool beside the basin that looked as if it had been built during a time when furniture was designed exclusively for punishing the human spine.

He obeyed, folding himself down delicately as though the act of sitting might be judged in a beauty pageant. Eyes shut, hands folded in his lap, he looked like he was bracing for either a sermon or a beheading.

I let him marinate there for a long, delicious moment, then grabbed the nearest bucket, filled it from the basin tap until the water steamed, and without so much as a warning—dumped it straight over his head.

He shrieked. Not just any shriek, either. This was an orchestral, full-bodied, operatic note that started in horror, flirted with betrayal, and landed squarely in how dare you.

Water cascaded down his golden hair in silky sheets, plastering it to his cheeks and neck, dripping into his collar. His hands flew up, spluttering, but it was too late—the crime was committed, and I was already doubled over, laughing like a sinner who’s just discovered heaven has a back door.

“Holy shit” I managed between gasps, “you should’ve seen

your face!”

He gave me the sort of glare you reserve for people who’ve both ruined your day and somehow made you grateful for it.

Then I came up and crouched behind him, gathering his soaking hair into my hands. Up close, it felt like spun silk that had been kissed by the rain—smooth, light, almost too perfect to belong to anyone real.

I lathered my fingers with a scrap of soap and began working into his scalp, slow but firm, nails scratching just enough to make him shiver. He relaxed against me despite himself, the tension in his shoulders dissolving under each methodical stroke.

The moment shifted—still playful, but something else humming beneath it. Intimate. A little dangerous, like balancing on the edge of a high balcony with your toes hanging off the ledge.

His scent, faintly sweet and warm now that the grime was melting away, drifted back to me. The damp heat of his skin pressed against my thighs. And I began to notice things. Dangerous things.

Felix was beautiful in the way nature sometimes accidentally makes something perfect and then hides it out of spite. His hair gleamed even under the dim light, each strand catching a glint like threads pulled from sunlight itself. His neck was slender and smooth, leading down to shoulders that were soft, delicate, and somehow even smaller than mine. I’d thought my own frame was slight, but he made me look like I should be hauling bricks for a living.

His muscles, such as they were, had the kind of softness that didn’t come from neglect, but from being carefully curated after years of practice. And those curves… not exaggerated, just barely there, like whispers of temptation shaped by a hand that knew restraint was more dangerous than excess.

I kept moving through his hair without permission before I found his hands resting limply in his lap and—because I so happen to be a deeply irresponsible person—I reached down and threaded my fingers through his.

He gasped, arching back into me just slightly, just enough to make my pulse trip over itself. His fingers were a contradiction: a little rough at the edges, the sort of roughness that came from living in this kind of place, but still delicate—feminine in a way no imitation could capture. The kind of hands you wanted to kiss just to see if they trembled.

And then I remembered the box.

It was time.

I set it on the edge of the basin and flipped the latch. The lid creaked open to reveal a neat array of powders, creams, and brushes—makeup, but not the cheap slap-dash variety you smear on in bad lighting. This was rich stuff, pigments so fine they shimmered like ground gemstones, brushes so soft they could probably seduce a saint.

Felix looked up at me, water still dripping down his cheeks, eyes blown wide in something caught between awe and panic. I smiled before tilting his chin up.

“Don’t worry,” I murmured, “I’m not about to paint you like one of those cheap courtesans. Just enough to make the room jealous.”

He whimpered softly—yes, whimpered, the kind of sound that went straight to the part of me that should never be given sharp objects, or delicate boys for that matter. I leaned closer, close enough that my breath brushed his damp skin, and began.

A touch of powder to even his already flawless skin. The faintest sweep of color along his cheekbones, coaxing them higher. A whisper of shadow along his eyelids, deepening the natural curve. I didn’t need to do much; he was already unfair.

All I could do was frame the masterpiece.

Every brush stroke was an excuse to touch him—tilting his chin, tucking hair behind his ear, steadying his jaw with my thumb grazing the corner of his mouth.

By the time I pulled back, I was nearly trembling from the effort of not doing something that would’ve gotten us banned from this facility.

And then I squealed. Actually squealed at the sight of him.

I threw my arms around him and squeezed like I was hugging a pillow. Felix, startled, caught sight of himself in the cracked mirror beside us. I saw his blush bloom almost instantly, flooding his cheeks with soft pink as his hands flew up to cup them. A shy smile crept across his face, the kind you only see once before you decide you’d commit several crimes just to see it again.

He hugged me back. Tentatively at first, then with a sudden warmth that stole my breath for a second. We pulled apart only when the air shifted—the slow, heavy awareness of being watched.

Across the washroom, several people were glaring. Not with disapproval, but with the sort of raw, hungry attention usually reserved for fresh meat in a wolf pen. A few nobles’ mouths hung open just enough to make it indecent. One particularly bold slave was practically drooling, eyes raking over us like we were on auction.

I smiled sweetly at them, the kind of smile that says yes, I see you imagining us, and no, you can’t afford it. “Sorry darlings,” I called over, “private show’s over. You can all go back to watching each other fail at washing your backs.”

Then, to Felix, I said, “Stay here. Look pretty. I’m going to go… wash myself. Thoroughly.”

Before he could ask what thoroughly meant in my vocabulary, I darted across the aisle into one of the shower cubicles opposite us. The curtain swung shut behind me with a whisper, cutting off most of the gawking.

I turned the tap and let the water rush over me, hot enough to sting, sluicing away the grime and tension. At first, I washed mechanically—soap over skin, fingers scrubbing through hair—but the images wouldn’t leave me. Felix, on that stool, hair dripping over his cheeks. His wide eyes and flushed smile in the mirror. His fingers curling into mine like he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to hold them.

Somewhere between rinsing my arms and working the soap over my chest, I gave up pretending. My hand slowed, lingered, then wrapped around the length of my cock harder than was strictly necessary. I bit down on my finger to smother a gasp, eyes closing as heat pooled low in my belly.

Gods, I’d been with plenty of people. Too many, maybe. Faces blurred, names forgotten, bodies reduced to mechanical memory. But this… this was different. He was different. Soft and sharp all at once, a contradiction that set my nerves alight. I pictured him naked in the steam, those delicate curves beaded with water, golden hair clinging to his neck, thighs pressed together in that shy, maddening way—

I shuddered, leaning one hand against the slick tile, my breath coming faster now. My fingers moved with a rhythm I didn’t dare name, chasing the thought of him. His blush. His whimper. The way his gaze dropped and then flickered up through his lashes.

Then somewhere in the haze, I heard it—the wet slap of bare feet on tile, approaching from behind.

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