It smarts, the water deepening in color until eventually, it runs clear again. Even still, he doesn’t retreat.
“I think I got it from here,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder. “Thank you for helping.”
“It’s going to continue bleeding a little until it clots,” he tells me, ignoring my request. “Keep your hair parted, and I’ll patch it up the best I can when you’re done.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
Our eyes meet, and the fire-breathing dragon in my stomach grows angrier.
“Okay,” he parrots.
Slowly, as if he wants me to make sure I’m watching every move, he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms again and getting comfortable. Water is splattered all over the front of his shirt, and the floor is soaked. Yet, he doesn’t seem to notice anything outside of me standing beneath the stream staring at him with a puzzled expression.
A bead of water catches his attention, and I’m not sure which it is of the hundreds, but I know it’s trailing between my breasts and down the planes of my stomach. His tongue slides along his bottom lip, slowly and sensually, as if he’s imagining lapping it up.
Without looking away, I blindly reach for the body wash and squeeze that on my hand next. We’ve been using our own rags, but my hand will be so much more interesting.
Beneath his penetrating stare, I rub the soap between my palms, then cup my breasts, spreading the suds across them. The heat in his eyes deepens, and his nostrils flare. I can see the outline of his hard cock in his shorts. At some point, he must’ve readjusted, so it’s tucked in the band, and I’m disappointed by that.
“Concentrati, Sawyer,” he demands, his voice laden with desire.Concentrate.I can interpret that command.
Biting my bottom lip, I move my hands down my stomach, across my hips, and over my ass cheeks. He tracks every move religiously, as if the secrets to the universe will appear within the suds coating my skin.
Holding my breath, I watch him closely as I glide a hand toward my pussy. The muscle in his jaw pops, his teeth clenched tightly together. I brush my pointer finger across my clit, a tiny moan slipping free. His eyes rocket to mine.
“Attenta,bella. You shouldn't strain yourself with a head injury.”
“It doesn't take much to make myself come,” I say. “It's you who has to work for it.”
A thick brow rises, the challenge sparking his hazel pools.
“Is that so?” he croons. “Let's see it then.”
I hesitate, uncertainty beginning to taint the desire.
Enzo has probably seen me from every angle possible, yet all I can feel is an utter embarrassment at the thought of doing something so intimate. Maybe because the relationship between us has been built on cruelty from both sides, and so easily, he could use this as another opportunity to hurt me.
“My head is really hurting, I'm not in the mood,” I lie, turning away. My headdoeshurt, but I’m definitely in the mood. Or at least I was until I ruined it.
”Is that a lie, Sawyer?”
Shit. I don't know why I thought I could get away with that. Maybe because most people would take my word for it, considering I just suffered a head injury.
“Finish up,” he snaps, pushing off the wall and storming out of the room. I close my eyes in defeat, angry with myself for defaulting to the one thing he despises most. It's a habit. One I haven't figured out how to break yet.
Feeling dejected, I finish washing the rest of my body, then wrap myself in the tiniest towel I’ve ever seen. It might as well be a goddamn hand towel. My hair is still dripping wet, too sore to do much more than squeeze the excess water out as best I can.
When I enter the room, I find Enzo sitting on the edge of the bed, facing me with his elbows on his spread knees, fingers linked, and head bowed.
Hearing my arrival, he lifts his head, and I’m a little stunned to find his stare no less intense than it was in the bathroom. If anything, it's only strengthened.
I stop short, nearly wheezing from the sight. It feels as if I can hardly expand my lungs past the size of a strand of hair. His mouth is pulled into a slight frown, and his thick brows are low over his eyes. He appears angry, sure, but when doesn’t he? He’s looked this way every time he’s been inside me, and this time… this time is no different.
“Do you think you’d still lie to me if I knew that you were?” he asks quietly, his tone inquisitive but lethal. Like a hitman asking if you’re ready to die now.
I roll my lips, contemplating how I’m supposed to answer that. I don’t alwayswantto lie, it just comes easiest. It’s a better alternative than confrontation.
“What do you mean?” I ask finally.