After a few more minutes, Alastor broke his silence. “Am I done yet, milord? Because if I stay in here much longer, I’ll be going down the frigging plug hole too.”
Darien reached in, turned off the shower, and started to towel dry Alastor’s hair. When he stopped, it stuck up like a punk’s, and the rich orange color glowed. As he tried to tame the sticking-up hair, Alastor took the towel out of his hand and wiped it around his body.
“Never thought I’d have an heir as my personal fart catcher,” Alastor said.
“Your what?” Darien asked, wondering if this was a new word for a top. If it was, he didn’t like it. Darien stopped playing with fascinating bright hair, and the towel dropped to the floor.
“Footman, servant. You know, the guy who walks so close behind their master they catch all the farts?”
Darien opened his mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say except, “You are very odd.”
Alastor gave him a grin and a flamboyant bow. “Why, thank you, milord. So, now that I’m scrubbed within an inch of my life, fancy fucking me?”