The towel around me feels too rough against my still-sensitive skin, and Aquasteine's arms are too steady, too safe.
My body is buzzing from the aftermath of that awful penalty—shaky, overheated, and suddenly filled with this deep, embarrassing ache that I don't know how to name out loud. Heat pools low in my belly, slick and insistent between my thighs, making me press them together under the towel.
I can't stop shifting in his hold, my face burning as I hide it against his wet chest. His scent—clean water mixed with something warm and masculine—only makes it worse. My nipples tighten painfully against the fabric, and I bite my lip hard, mortified that my mates might notice.
"Ravine?" Aquasteine's voice is soft now, all the earlier sternness melted away into concern. He cradles me closer, one big hand rubbing slow circles on my back through the towel. "Talk to us, little one. That looked painful."
