The battle ceases when Ava notices we’re in a bathroom. I drop her into a claw foot tub, forearm flexed against her body as I use the other hand to turn on the water and temper it.
“Hot!”
“Stop escaping, so I can adjust it!”
“Noooo!” she screams as I stiff-arm her and get the water to the perfect temperature. I grab the silver pitcher that’s always been there, possibly for decor. As the water fills around Ava’s creamy thighs, I fill the pitcher then pour it over her shoulders.
All the air in my chest deflates. I watch the stream cascade, loving the dip between her ample tits. The water washes over the slender curve of her stomach—it’s not perfectly flat, but more than perfection to me. The river of water from the pitcher trails over light-brown stretch marks on the side of her cleavage. I’ve ceased all movement in stoic admiration.
“Why?” Ava pants.
“Your body responds to me, Ava. Your chest heaves. Nipples draw into the cutest wee pebbles. Tell me, how wet are you?” I glance at the pooling water, the inference an arrogant flare in my eye.
“Alright, how many then,” she grits. “How many women have you tak—”
“No others.”
“Liar,” Ava gasps.
I toss a sponge at her body, and it bounces against her chest. “My mam once said...”Feck, I’m bringing up my departed mother. I clear my throat. “That’s a very bad word.”
Ava aims a pointed glance around herself. “Did she raise you to—”
“No.”
“Thenwhy? Why me, Kieran? If your mother’s a good woman . . .”
In a dry tone, I mumble, “She was.”
“She died? I’m sorry.” Ava stammers as if latching on to some form of enlightenment. “Is this why you’re attacking me. You’re lonely? An inability to cope?”
“I’ve not attacked you any more than you’ve attacked me.”
Her laughter lifts into the air.
“If we take a moment to tally up slaps and punches, it turns outyou’rethe bad guy, Ava.” I snort-laugh, then my gray eyes warm at the fondest thought. “Yes, my mam was a good woman. Nevertheless, Mam didn’t raise me either.” I grip the sponge, applying liquid soap.
“Do you have a fetish? Attack women with a darker tone?”
“I’m not racist, Ava. When I encountered you, it was night.”
Pulling her legs to her chest and embracing them close, Ava sighs. “You planned this, liar!”
I grip her arms, plunging her beneath the water.Five, four, three, two, one.
When I haul Ava up into a sitting position, she sputters. I plunge her down again.
In perverse satisfaction, I watch her athletic limbs loosen and her heaving pants become erratic. Gripping her biceps, I pull her up until our noses touch.
My sharp gaze strips her soul bare. “You may ask questions—anything in the world. You may notfeckingassume, Ava.”
I drop the sponge into the water and stand up, jeans soaked through. She’s swept her body into a tight ball again, heaving and hacking as I shove one denim leg off, then the other and kick them away.
Agony stretches across Ava’s face, and it takes thefecked-up darkness I’ve lived in for me to adore it. She thinks I’ll bloody rape her. But I’m not that far gone. Not yet.
8
Ava