Chapter 39
Lorenzo
W ith Lena gone, there’s a restlessness in Piper’s movements that catches my eye. The way she fiddles with her sweater hem, her fingers pinching and releasing the fabric in a rhythm that betrays everything she’s trying to hide.
She thinks I don’t notice the half-glances she throws my way, as if she’s processing something. But I notice everything about her. Every breath. Every twitch. Every silent plea her body makes before her mind catches up to what she truly wants. Me.
“Did you have fun, Toy?” I ask.
Piper nods, a slight jerk of her chin. “Yeah.”
While I was gone, I only checked the security feeds long enough to confirm she hadn’t left the apartment. I could have listened in on everything, but I decided to play nice and respect her time with Lena. Now that seems like a fucking mistake because something’s up.
“What did you talk about?” I move closer, watching her throat work as she swallows.
“Nothing special.” Her eyes slide away from mine. “School. Exams.”
She’s lying. The truth sits on her skin like a fever, making her cheeks flush, her posture too rigid. Something in their conversation has unsettled my toy.
“Liar,” I murmur, but there’s no anger in it. Only certainty.
Her shoulders tense. “I’m not the only one with secrets,” she retorts.
“Is that so?” I brush her hair back from her cheek with one hand, savoring the slight tremor that runs through her at my touch. “What secrets am I keeping, Toy?” My fingers skim the shell of her ear, down the column of her throat.
She huffs out a laugh. “If I knew it wouldn’t be much of a secret, would it?” There she is, my stubborn Piper .
“If you want to know something, all you have to do is ask,” I tell her.
If Lena has done anything to upset Piper, I’ll need to address it carefully. My toy is stubborn in her attachments. She wouldn’t forgive me for hurting her precious friend, no matter how much that friend might deserve it.
“We should shower before dinner,” I say, the words simple enough, but the demand beneath them is unmistakable. Her body knows what I’m really saying. It always does.
She laughs under her breath. “I need to shave.” She says it like that’s a deterrent. “And I can’t afford distractions right now. Exams are coming up, and I’m already behind.”
I let her spill her protests like prayers to a god who’s already made up his mind.
“You don’t have to do anything alone anymore,” I tell her, closing the distance between us, and sliding my hand around the back of her neck. Her skin burns against my palm, so alive. I apply just enough pressure to remind her who she belongs to. “That includes shaving.”
The shift is subtle but immediate as her body softens against mine without a fight. My hand never leaves her neck as I guide her toward the bathroom. With each step, I feel her resistance crumbling, feel her leaning into my touch like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
“I’ll run the water,” I tell her, finally releasing her to turn on the shower. Then I move back to her, watching as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, still hovering in the doorway as if uncertain. “Strip.”
Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for the hem of her sweater, but she doesn’t hesitate.
With swift movements, she pulls it over her head and lets it fall to the floor.
Next, her pants, sliding down her thighs to pool at her feet.
She steps out of them with a grace that makes my blood burn.
I take my time removing my own clothes, never breaking our gaze. Every button undone, every inch of skin revealed is done with the slow precision of a ritual. My toy’s eyes darken with lust when I stand naked before her.
I step toward her, and hook my fingers beneath the elastic of her underwear. “These too,” I rasp against her temple.
She obeys without hesitation, allowing me to unhook her bra while she pushes down her thong, stepping out of her underwear. Then I take her hand and lead her into the shower, the hot water immediately slicking our skin, making it gleam in the low bathroom light.
I position her directly beneath the spray, watching as the water cascades over her, plastering her hair to her skull in dark rivers.
She looks up at me through long, wet lashes, water beading on her lips, and for a moment, I almost forget that anything was ever wrong.
But then I see it—that same restlessness from before, hidden now behind desire but still there in the corners of her eyes.
Whatever Lena said to her, I’ll erase it. Letter by fucking letter, touch by motherfucking touch, until there’s nothing left in Piper’s mind but the truth I’ve carved into her soul since the day I saw her.
I reach for the soap, working it between my palms until it becomes a thick, white lather between my hands. When I touch her shoulders, she exhales—a soft sound that echoes off the walls.
“Turn around,” I demand against her ear.
She obeys, presenting her back to me, hair cascading down in a dark, wet rope that I push to her front.
I start at her shoulders, fingers digging into the tense muscles there, working the soap across her skin in slow, deliberate circles.
I’m memorizing her all over again, mapping territory I already own.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I rasp against her ear, because sometimes even gods have to worship their miracles out loud.
Her head drops forward, exposing the vulnerable nape of her neck. I press my lips there, tasting soap and water and the salt of her skin. My hands slide around to her front, palms gliding over the slick plane of her stomach, up to cup the weight of her tits.
Her nipples pebble instantly against my palms, the contrast of soft flesh and tight peaks making my cock jerk against her ass. Piper arches into my hands with a fractured moan, and the hunger to split her open threatens my control.
She turns in my arms, her own hands coming up to mirror my earlier actions. “I want to feel you,” she purrs.
Slick suds slide between her fingers as she traces the contours of my chest, shoulders, down my arms in slow, deliberate lines that make my blood sing.
When her fingers brush over my nipple, I groan. “You’re playing with fire, Toy.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re literally surrounded by water,” she smiles.
I let her explore, loving the feel of her hands moving lower, tracing the cut of my hip bones, the trail of dark hair leading down. But before she can reach her destination, I capture her wrists, spinning her gently so her back is against my chest again.
“Didn’t you say you couldn’t afford any distractions?” I ask, my voice filled with gravel.
“I did,” she purrs. “But I—”
I interrupt her with a tisking sound. “And you said you needed to shave. Let me take care of you,” I rasp, dragging the blunt edge of my teeth along the vulnerable line of her throat. “You don’t have to do anything except trust me. Let me show you how well I take care of what’s mine.”
She shudders, the breath stuttering out of her in a ragged exhale. “Enzo,” she whispers, half in warning, half in surrender.
I curl my hand around her throat, my thumb brushing the rapid pulse hammering beneath her skin. Fragile. Frantic. Perfect. “Trust me,” I say again, softer now. A promise and a command layered in one breath.
The moment her head tilts back, baring her throat wider for me, I know she’s given in. “Fine,” she finally agrees.
I could tear the world apart in gratitude. My toy. My perfect, stubborn, beautiful toy.
Lifting her arm, I guide it up and back until she’s cupping the nape of my neck. The position exposes the delicate hollow of her armpit. She tips her head up, watching me with wary eyes, her lips a tight line of uncertainty.
Even her resistance is beautiful to me—not something to be crushed, but savored like the last moments before a storm breaks.
“Hold still,” I murmur, squeezing body wash into my palm. The scent blooms between us, jasmine and vanilla.
I cover the sensitive skin of her armpit in soap. She tenses at first, a flush crawling up her neck at the intimacy of this act. It’s one thing to let me fuck her, it’s another entirely to let me care for her in this way—to expose the vulnerable, ordinary parts of herself that no one else sees.
When I reach for her razor on the shower shelf, her breath hitches. “Enzo.” Her voice trembles slightly. “I’m not sure about this.”
“Do you trust me, Toy?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, worrying her bottom lip. “But I… ahh, I want to.”
“Good girl,” I murmur.
The razor glides smooth against her skin, revealing pale flesh in its wake. I rinse the blade under the spray, then return for another precise stroke. Her skin is sacred to me, and even the mundane act of removing hair is a form of worship when it’s her body beneath my hands.
She doesn’t relax until I’m almost done with the second armpit, the tension finally bleeding from her shoulders, her breath evening out to match the rhythm of my strokes. When I finish, I rinse away the remaining soap.
I press my lips to her forehead. “What else needs shaving?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“M-my legs,” she stutters.
“Sit on the edge,” I tell her, guiding her to the built-in bench in the shower’s corner.
While she obeys, perching on the edge with her knees pressed tightly together, I kneel at her feet like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is because it feels like I was born to worship at this particular altar.
With gentle pressure, I lift her right leg and settle it across my shoulder, my hand cradling her calf. The position opens her to me, exposes the slick pink of her sex, but I keep my eyes fixed on the task at hand.
“ You don’t have to—” she begins.
I silence her with a look. “Yes, I do.”