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The world narrows to the simple, repetitive motion of his hands, the hush of the water, and the way every nerve in my body is tuned to whatever Adrien is about to do next.

My brain seems to just… set down every worry and let itself be washed. It’s not like anything I’ve ever experienced, not even close. There’s a softness I didn’t expect, a kind of safety that sweeps over me and settles deep in my chest. I’m not thinking about being naked, not about how weird this should feel, not even about the cuffs, which are a constant, gentle reminder that I am not in control.

I’m only aware of the warmth of his palm and the way my body has started to sway, just barely, with each cycle of lather and rinse.

He pours water down my back in streams, keeping his hand between my face and the splash, then wipes the last suds from my ears and jawline. I realize at some point I’m making noise—these soft, embarrassing little sighs or whimpers that escape before I can even think to swallow them down.

The first time I notice, I clamp my mouth shut, but Adrien only says, “That’s it, sweetheart. Let it out. I’ll take care of you.”

I nod, which is apparently all the permission my body needs to start humming every time he touches a new spot. He works the washcloth down my arms, over my shoulders, then along my sides, slow and thorough. When he gets to my chest, he pauses, glances up at my face for a beat, then continues. I think he’s careful not to touch my nipples, but I feel the friction anyway, sharp and hot. The noise I make that time is more of a gasp. Adrien doesn’t comment, but I can tell he heard.

He moves behind me and tells me to lean forward. I do, spine curving over my knees as he runs the cloth down my back, then over my ass. The washcloth drags over skin, then down—lower than I expect, but not in a way that feels threatening. I’m aware of every molecule of water between us. I think I want him to go even lower, but I can’t say that out loud. I’m not sure I can say anything out loud.

My face is still burning. Maybe it always will be around him.

I risk a look up when he finishes my back, but his expression is unreadable, focused on the job.

I try to relax, try to be good, but I’m so hard I can’t even pretend not to notice. It’s humiliating, except—I don’t want to hide it, either. I think I want him to see.

“Almost done, Kammie,” he says, and I don’t know why hearing my name—the name only my father called me, the name connected to everything soft and sweet and happy in my memories—in his mouth makes my stomach clench, but it does.

I ache everywhere, but it’s not pain—I’m strung out, trembling, and I think Adrien knows it.

“Deep breath,” he says, soft as a pocket of air, and I do, breathing him in along with the steam.

The washcloth drags along my inner thigh, then the other. I can hear my own pulse in my ears. He doesn’t flinch from the parts of me that are most embarrassing; in fact, he cups the back of my thigh, supporting it while he cleans. The pressure is gentle, never too much.

He moves the cloth up, just under my balls, and I gasp, the sound stupid and desperate. My whole body goes rigid. Adrien hushes me, then leans forward so I can feel his breath on my cheek.

“Shhhh, breathe, baby,” he soothes. “Let it happen.”

I don’t know if he means my noises or my body, but it doesn’t matter; I can’t hold back anything, not with him kneeling over me like this. He brings the cloth slowly up my shaft and wraps it around me, his hand closing around me gently, then moving up and down in a motion that is obviously not just for cleanliness.

I moan, and it’s so loud and needy I want to die.

Adrien is watching my face the entire time. When I dare to look at him, I see a heat in his eyes that makes my stomach dip. He shifts his grip, thumb circling the head of my dick, and I whimper.

“Does that feel nice?” he asks.

I nod, throat locked.

“Let me hear you.”

It’s not a request I’ve ever gotten before, but I obey, because the alternative would be to die of shame, and I’d rather explode than give in to that.

“Ple—ase,” I gasp, and the word cracks down the middle.

He keeps up the slow, slick movements, fingers alternating between soft and firm, wrist angling to get every part of me. It feels so good I want to cry. He keeps talking, his words pushing me closer and closer to the edge.

“Such a beautiful boy,” Adrien purrs. “You’re so sensitive, aren’t you, honey?”

My hips buck forward, and he tightens his hold, still gentle, never rough.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathes, his hand milking me. “Oh, baby,” he sighs. “You are mine, aren’t you? I was trying so hard to ignore it, but that’s it, isn’t it? You need Daddy to take care of you.”

The Daddy thing is so confusing I almost lose my place in the world for a second. I hear it, but I can’t fit the word anywhere in the logic of what’s happening. It echoes, bouncing off the corners of my head until it lands somewhere deep and clings tight.

Adrien doesn’t stop touching me, doesn’t even slow down. He says “Daddy” again, lower, more certain, and the word drills right through the wall between mortification and something else—something that makes me want to melt down the drain.