The water hit his face cold.
Not the warm mineral water of the hot spring — cold, tap-temperature, the specific shock of it hitting him between the eyes and spreading outward — and Gareth's body responded before his brain had finished the waking sequence, the involuntary gasp, the eyes flying open, the chest rising off whatever surface he was lying on.
He blinked.
Ceiling. Stone. The private bath suite, the amber light still going, the steam thinner now from the open door.
And directly above his face—
He blinked again.
A cock.
Limp. Spent. Still carrying the specific, unmistakable evidence of what it had been doing for the last several hours — Raven standing over him, feet on either side of his shoulders, looking down with the warm, philosophical expression of a man who has found something on his floor and is deciding what to do with it.
The last drop of urine fell on Gareth's cheek.
The world stopped.
