Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
But right now, it’s what I need. And somehow, he knows that.
“We’re going to get you washed up now.”
I nod, exhausted, glad to let somebody else deal with logistics for a moment. I can shut my brain off while Enzo turns on the shower. I step into the stall, immediately assaulted by the sting of hot water against my skin. But it feels good.
Leaning against the tiled wall, I close my eyes, letting the water run over my body. Maybe it can wash away the memories, too. A moment later, the door to the stall opens, and I go rigid all over again when a shirtless Enzo reaches into the shower to pour body wash over a washcloth.
“Just relax,” he murmurs, and something about his low growl comforts me. Like every word he says picks at the knot of tension between my shoulder blades and in my stomach, loosening them a fraction at a time. “Turn around. Let me get your back.”
I’m too relieved at being taken care of to insist on washing myself. I turn away from him so he can begin to slide the soapy cloth over my neck and then across my shoulders and down. He works slowly, but there’s nothing inherently sexual about his touch.
That doesn’t stop me from having to stifle my sighs, worried he’ll take them the wrong way. Really what I’m more worried about is him taking them the right way, interpreting my reaction for what it is. I can’t let him know what he does to me. I might be half dead from exhaustion, but I know that much.
He doesn’t bother telling me to turn around, using his hands to turn me in place. I close my eyes and tilt my head back so the water runs over my hair while he washes away the dried blood that seeped through my dress. Every touch is like magic, unwinding me a little more, so by the time he decides I’m clean enough, I feel loose and content.
He even wraps me in a big, fluffy towel before backing away so I can step out of the stall. He towels off his wet chest and arms quickly, and I can’t help but sneak a few peeks at his ridiculously chiseled shoulders, biceps, and abs. He’s the product of discipline, obviously, with the body of someone who drives himself hard and unmercifully. He’s just as hard on himself as he is on others.
“Feeling better?” he asks when he catches me watching him.
I have to avert my gaze, nodding while toweling off my hair. At least the towel hides my face, now flushing thanks to embarrassment. “Yes, thank you.”
“Good. Come on.” I have no choice but to follow him out of the steamy room, but instead of leading me back to the room I’ve stayed in since I got here, he takes me farther down the hall. I follow slowly, with hesitance. Does he know what he’s doing? Did he forget to drop me off?
He opens the door, and I find myself in a large, sunny room with a king-size bed. Now my heart is racing all over again. Is this what he was cleaning me up for? No matter how much my body wants him, this can’t be right. How naïve am I, thinking he only did that to be nice? When am I going to learn?
He turns to me, then frowns as his gaze moves over my face. “What? What’s the problem now?” I’m too afraid to talk, but the direction my gaze moves in—the large bed with its piles of pillows and what looks like satin sheets—answers his question. “I brought you in here to get dressed. That’s all. Calm down.” He keeps telling me to do that, doesn’t he? I doubt I could make him understand how impossible it is to be calm around him. Not when he’s so unpredictable, and he’s been so damn cruel and violent.
Instead, I settle for sitting on the edge of the bed, shaking a little while he opens the door to a vast closet that looks more like the interior of an upscale men’s store. Black walls, dark wood shelving, and a table in the center holding watches and cuff links that gleam in the light from tastefully recessed fixtures. There’s an entire wall of suits, and the one opposite holds dress shirts, along with a rack of ties. The man has good taste. I wonder what it would be like to have a closet like this, full of expensive clothes and shoes and jewelry.
I wonder what it would be like to live such a dishonest life that I’d be able to afford such things. Nobody makes this kind of money legally, and it isn’t like I have any illusions about this man. He’s a criminal, plain and simple. A criminal with an extraordinary closet.