the time I’ve made it to my room, I’m bare-chested. Dropping everything I’ve stripped off into a heap by the door, I kick my shoes off and head for the bathroom, removing my trousers as the water warms.
The spray has never felt so good, and I stand under it for an age, arms limp by my side, head dropped, watching the red-stained water swirling around my feet as the last of that weight is washed from my body and pours down the plughole. His face, the fear, the moment he realized who I was. Magic. I close my eyes and see my father’s face on the day I met him. The tiny smirk he gave me when I proudly boasted it hadn’t hurt when Pedro’s sidekick sliced my cheek open. How Pops looked into my eyes and told me the next time I see Pedro, kill him. Well, I did, Mister. You brought him into my path, and I did what you told me to do. And it felt good. Right.
Final.
I’m still lost in my thoughts when I hear movement behind me, and I slowly cast my eyes over my shoulder, finding Rose is naked by the door. Her clothes are in a pile at her feet.
I’ve killed two men today. One quickly and cleanly, the other I made a bloodied mess of. She saw both and hardly twitched. She’s fucking immune to my world. She also had a chance to escape in between each kill. Yet she didn’t. I don’t have the energy right now to try and figure out what that means. The woman is a fucking enigma.
Turning back to face the tile, I continue relishing the shower raining down on me. It’s still not clear around my feet, red tinging the water. “Come to clean me down?” I ask, feeling her closer. My voice is rough, short, and unfriendly. Not that it will penetrate Rose’s thick skin.
I feel her hand slip between my hip and my arm, reaching for the shower cream on the shelf before me. Her cheek meets my shoulder as she stretches, her wet breasts pushing into my back. The temperature in the stall goes from hot to scorching, and I reach for the wall before me, resting some weight on my braced arm.
I hear the lid of the bottle flip, the squirting of some cream into her palm. Her hands. All over me. “I have a washcloth,” I tell her.
She says nothing, massaging the soap into my skin. Air is suddenly hard to find. So is my sense. Resisting her is a challenge like no other I’ve faced. She wants me. That’s been proven more than once. I’ve had a yes, even if she’s not actually said it. So what the fuck is stopping me now?
Fear.
I’ve never been scared, yet this woman frightens me. How resilient she is. How fearless. How she tells me I’m the devil but looks at me like I’m a god. How she isn’t scared of me. How fucking beautiful she is. For the first time in my life, I’m fucking scared. Because she could be my ruin. My Achilles heel. My weakness. Everything I’ve fought for could be wiped out the second I give in to my desire. I never truly appreciated how powerful desire is. I’ve had the desire to fuck a woman. I’ve had the desire to kiss one. But never have I had the desire to want to know one.
The circling motions of her hands across my back seem to be raising my body’s heat a degree with each rotation. My insides are blazing, and when I look down, I see the heat has woken up my dick. The urge to wrap my fist around it is strong. So is the urge to turn and face my biggest nemesis. But no. Stare ahead. Ignore the feel of her working her hands all over my skin. Or, better still, tell her to get the fuck out of my room. Why haven’t I done that?
“Get out,” I say quietly, turning to face her. Her hands, covered in suds, are now on my pecs, her arresting eyes gazing up into mine. Tiny drops of water hang from a few of her lashes, and one from the end of her perfect nose. Her cheeks are deeply flushed. Her perfect skin perfectly flawless. Her nipples are wide awake. Her body is wonderfully naked and wet.
But . . . no.
“I said, get out.”
She backs up, showing rare wariness. But she doesn’t