Chapter 15 Trilby #2
His jaw tics from side to side. “There’s one in the spare bedroom, but if you want to take a shower, the best one is in the master. I’ll show you.”
He strokes his gaze down my neck and lingers on my collarbone one last time, then he walks past me.
I take in his gait as I follow. It’s smooth, assured, and purposeful—everything I wish I were. He opens a set of doors and takes out two unfathomably fluffy towels. When he catches my widened eyes, he shrugs.
“I have a housekeeper when I’m in town.”
Two seconds later, we’re standing in a tastefully decorated bathroom. There’s an enormous waterfall shower enclosed in polished glass panels, and enough shampoos and lotions to last a year. I can’t stop my jealous thoughts from veering to the question of whether other women have been here.
“Have you had company?” I ask before I can stop myself.
I feel him smile beside me.
“No.” He turns to leave but stops in the doorway. “My housekeeper is a wishful thinker.” His gaze caresses my face, sending me into a hazy spin.
I want to know what he’s thinking. We came close to kissing back there, and now I’m staying in his apartment. And it’s not weird. I feel like I’m meant to be here.
His voice softens like a damn pillow. “Just come back out when you’re done. Take your time.”
I stare at the door he just left wide-open and wonder how he can be so mindful of my honor yet so selective about it.
My stomach is roiling after the past few hours.
Being in the church brought back memories I never want to relive again in any lifetime.
Witnessing cold-blooded murder just inches from my person made me yearn for my family, when in reality, they’re slipping from my fingers.
And having Cristiano’s lips so close to my own has made me feel, for the first time since my mother died, like a living, breathing, aching human being.
Someone who wants to feel everything again, without the protective layers of grief and loss.
I leave the door exactly where it is and slowly peel off my clothes. I let them scatter like breadcrumbs along the floor until I reach the shower, then I step inside and let the water pummel me.
Steam floods the room, and I drench myself in it. I need to cleanse myself of all the dirt and grime tunnelling under my nails and into my dreams.
I stand there for about ten minutes relishing the sizzle of hot water on cool skin, until I can barely see further than my nose. I wipe a hand across the glass separating me from the rest of the bathroom. As my eyes readjust to the light, I see movement beyond the door.
My breath stutters. Standing in the center of the living room, feet braced on the wooden floor, and staring at me like he wants to devour me limb from limb, is Cristiano.
My pulse thuds through my temple like my own personal bass drum. Every throb punctuates another second in which neither of us move.
He’s looking at me.
Really looking at me, and it makes me feel even more naked than I am.
My legs tremble as I force myself to hold his gaze.
Cristiano slowly rolls his head, loosening the tension in his neck.
He doesn’t break eye contact. As more seconds pass, the shock and embarrassment I feel give way to defiance; to challenge.
He wanted this to happen. This is why he left the door open.
He wanted to see me. He wanted to see more of what he can’t have.
This man is a masochist.
As my fingertips rest on the glass, I realize that although I’ve been standing under the shower for the past ten minutes, I haven’t actually washed myself. And since Cristiano’s obviously now seen all of me stripped bare, I have nothing to lose.
I break eye contact to locate a bottle of very expensive soap.
I squeeze some onto my palm and rub it slowly to a lather.
When I lift my gaze, I feel the hot spear of his focus instantly.
His hands are in his pockets, but his shoulders are rigid.
Something pulses between my legs, threatening to distract me, but I don’t stop.
I rub the soap onto my arms, working it up to my shoulders, across my chest, and down to my breasts. My palms catch the sharp peaks of my nipples, and a soft gasp darts out of my throat, taking me by surprise.
Cristiano tears a hand from his pocket and pushes it roughly through his hair. He’s standing too far away for me to read his expression through the steam, but his stance hasn’t changed. He’s still looking.
I rub the soap across my rib cage and slowly down over my stomach.
My cheeks tighten with warm shame as my hands reach a part of me no man has ever seen.
I tremble at the contact and allow the soap to glide my hand between my legs, back and forth.
I only intended to clean myself, but holy crap, it feels good.
I’ve been down there before—not always with much success—but right now I could collapse with the need for release.
Even at this blurred distance I don’t miss Cristiano tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. I want nothing more than to tip my head back and rub myself until this torturous urge implodes, but I force my hands down my thighs.
The same hand that Cristiano pushed through his hair now wraps itself around the back of his neck, squeezing at the taut muscles lining the tops of his shoulders.
My mouth has achieved the impossible—in a steam-filled room, it’s as dry as a desert. I don’t want to stop this exhibitionist display, but I have to. Because if I don’t, and nothing comes of it, I might die.
And if I don’t, and something does come of it, I might be killed.
I step back beneath the powerful spray of the shower and close my eyes as the suds run off my skin.
When I eventually turn off the water and open my eyes, Cristiano has gone.