Chapter Thirty-Five
H e washed me .
Leaving my arm bandaged, he carefully soaped every inch of me from head to toe.
But he’d stopped talking. And smiling.
Intent, serious, he’d stripped me, put me in the shower, then taken the soap and set to task.
Not sure if I could touch him, I studied him.
From his thick thighs to his ridged abdomen to his broad, strong shoulders and huge biceps, his body was pure muscular perfection. But the perfection ended there. He was scarred almost everywhere. It made the bruising already coloring his ribs seem almost appropriate.
A scattering of small lances peppered his right thigh. Three small round scars were grouped on his left shoulder. A scar the size and shape of a pen traveled across the side of his neck where it met his shoulder, like someone had drawn it there. And when he squatted to wash between my legs, I saw a scar that looked like road rash covering the back of his shoulder.
But the most shocking was the cluster of slit-sized scars on the left side on his abdomen. I was sure they were knife wounds. There were five of them, and I couldn’t imagine getting stabbed five times.
When he stood back up to his full height, I couldn’t help myself. I touched them.
He didn’t flinch, and I hadn’t expected him to. They weren’t fresh scars like the one on his neck, but he stepped back.
“Go dry off.” His voice rough, he moved under the spray.
I shifted out of his way, but I didn’t leave the shower.
His eyes closed, rinsing himself off, he didn’t look like a fearless killer. He looked like a wounded warrior, and I couldn’t help but wonder why he’d told me he didn’t date women more than once.
Date.
I almost laughed at the absurdity of a man like him on a date. I’d been on plenty of dates, usually with men my father introduced me to at the bank. Men who wore suits and glasses and whose middles were soft and smiles were eager.
Ty Asher was not that.
Not even close.
I couldn’t imagine him owning a suit, and I knew he would never date me.
He’d said as much, and I wasn’t going to lie to myself that this could go anywhere. I’d asked for more from him because I’d had to. The old me had to. I’d had ideas of grandeur about love since as long as I could remember. A pretty package all wrapped up in a perfect husband and a perfect life and perfect kids and everything calm and sweet and organized and stable.
One look at the man in the shower in front of me and those dreams were less than a single breath of air.
I knew that.
I’d prepared myself for that.
I’d told myself before I asked him to unknowingly take my virginity that this, that he, would be a memory the second we walked out of this unfinished house.
But then he’d smiled at me.
His hard length buried so deep inside me, I didn’t know where he began or I ended, and he’d smiled . My heart had been racing full throttle away from me ever since.
Except now I was standing here, seeing this incredible man naked who’d washed my body as if I were the most precious thing on earth to him, and he wasn’t smiling or talking, but hiding a brewing storm behind his stony expression. I couldn’t help but take in his scarred body and imagine the hell he’d lived through to bear such marks of survival. And now, even more than before, I didn’t want this to end when we left here.
I didn’t want it to end at all.
He felt like the first real thing in my life, and I wanted to grasp hold of it and live, really live.
His huge hands pushed his wet hair back, and his arresting eyes opened. As if he knew I’d been standing here the whole time staring, his unwavering, intense gaze met mine.
Cooling water on my skin or desire, I didn’t know which, but a shiver ran up my body. I crossed my arms over my breasts and suddenly aching nipples. “I didn’t dry off.”
“I see that,” he deadpanned, shutting the water off.
That’s when it hit me.
This was it.
I should’ve realized what it meant when the entire time he’d soaped me, he hadn’t touched me sexually. And now, with his erection protruding from his narrow hips, the tip angry red as he reached around me for a towel and still didn’t touch me—I should’ve known.
It was over.
My heart crushed in on itself, and the shiver turned into a full-body shake.
“Fuck.” Muttering the curse under his breath, he dropped eye contact and draped the towel over my shoulders, carefully not touching me. “Dry off.” He stepped around me and grabbed a second towel. Without bothering to dry himself off, he wrapped it around his waist and headed for the door. “I’ll grab our clothes.”
Fighting tears, I stood in the walk-in shower and pulled the towel tight around me.
How incredibly stupid I’d been.
Chastising myself, I used the towel and the toilet and tried to ignore the soreness between my legs, but when I wiped, I didn’t encounter blood, period or otherwise. Just my traitorous core humming with memory and yearning for something I would never get more of, not from him.
Shamelessly searching through a stranger’s bathroom drawers, I came away with a comb and angrily drew it through my wet locks. Drips of water mixed with a few tears I let fall before I dropped the comb and gripped the edge of the vanity. Sucking in breath after breath, I forced myself to get it under control.
I would not let him see me cry.
I would not.
I’d asked for everything he’d given me.
That was all me.
He had no responsibility toward me, no obligation, none.
But as I said the last word, his steps sounded on the stairs and my resolve started to break all over again.
Fighting myself, my stupid emotions, my anger at everyone and everything, I held the towel tight and stared into the mirror. My eyes on the doorway, I told myself I would give him nothing when he walked in except indifference.
If it was casual to him, then it was casual to me.
I promised myself I would not show an ounce of emotion.
Not one drop.
But then his frame filled the doorway and his gaze immediately met mine.
“The shower?” He bit out, anger pouring out of him as he tossed our clothes on the counter. “Don’t ever fucking look at me like that again.”
Shocked, confused, I didn’t immediately reply.
He gripped my chin. “I’m no fucking hero, you hear me?”
Do not back down, do not back down to this man , I silently chanted. I didn’t know why it was so important, especially in this moment, but it was. I could feel it, deep in my bones. Bolstered by sheer desperation, I said what I wanted, not what I should. “What are you afraid of?”
He dropped his hand, and every muscle in his body went rigid, except his nostrils. They flared in lethal warning. “You think I’m afraid?”
I hadn’t thought he was afraid of anything until the subconscious words had tumbled out of my mouth. Now I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t have to.
“Who fucking pulled you out of a fortified compound with twenty to one odds?” He got angrier. “Who stole a money launderer’s only leverage and started a war with the deadliest fucking cartel in the world for nothing more than a fucking hundred and fifty bucks an hour?” His fist clenched, and the veins on his neck popped. He dropped his voice and leaned toward me. “Who slit the throat of the motherfucker that was about to rape you?”
My own insecurity vomited out. “Then why don’t you like me?”
“Fucking Christ,” he spit out, standing to his full height and grabbing the pile of clothes off the counter. Pulling out my dress, bra, and the long-sleeved shirt I’d borrowed, he silently tossed them at me. Throwing his shirt and pants over his shoulder, he abruptly stilled.
Staring at the two pairs of his boxers in his hand for a beat, he glanced at the pair he’d been wearing on the floor.
His shoulders lifted with a deep inhale.
Embarrassment colored my cheeks. “I—”
“I get it.” Without making eye contact, he handed me both pairs of his boxers.
I took them. “Thank you.”
He lowered his tone and his voice came out tired. “Get dressed.” Without waiting for a response, he walked out.