Page 16

ROMAN

E ven in this, she fought me.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

When she didn’t move, didn’t obey, I changed my tactics.

I could’ve just ripped her clothes from her body and tossed her into the shower. Perhaps I would’ve, under different circumstances.

Instead, I played dirty.

She enjoyed pretending that she didn’t want me.

Too bad for her.

She had a shit poker face. Her body revealed her desire at every single turn.

That was an advantage I intended to press.

“It’s not happening,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Ignoring her refusal, I pulled my cotton T-shirt off and threw it in the direction of the hamper. She turned her head, but she was watching me out of the corner of her eye.

My fingers toyed with my belt, slow and deliberate. I wanted her to remember what I could do with it—how I could own her with nothing more than leather and desire. She remembered. It was obvious in the way her thighs pressed together and her body tensed as I pulled the belt free from the loops.

She remembered what it was like for me to wrap this belt around her throat. How her body responded when I used it as a collar and a leash to bend her to my will.

I bet her pussy was already wet for me.

I was going to bend her to my will again, but I wasn’t going to need the belt. Not this time.

I dropped it to the side and undid the button of my trousers.

She didn’t pretend she wasn’t watching me anymore. Instead, she faced me, her eyes on me, but her expression was practiced indifference.

It should’ve worked.

It would have wounded my ego, if her breath hadn’t hitched, if her eyes hadn’t widened, if her lips hadn’t parted so subtly.

Her mask was a flimsy veil.

I dropped my pants, and her breath caught. That blush wasn’t from embarrassment. It was arousal. Her nipples told the truth, poking against her thin shirt like they needed my mouth. Her fingers dug into the counter like it was the only thing anchoring her to earth.

My boxers went next.

She tried so hard to keep her eyes on mine.

I liked that she even fought herself almost as much as she fought me.

"Your turn, printsessa ," I said, my voice low and dangerous.

“No.” Her eyes trailed down my body. I could feel them on me, working slowly down my chest to my abs and finally landing on my hard cock.

“I’m not taking off my clothes in front of you.”

I nodded, pretending to consider what she said.

“Well, we are going to get in that shower, and we are going to wash the dried blood from your skin. I will take care of you. So you can take off your fucking clothes…or I will. Your choice.”

She said nothing, but her knuckles turned white.

“Tick tock, Zoya. Do you want to do this the easy way or the fun way?”

Her jaw clenched as she looked at the ceiling, then she nodded. I didn’t know if she realized there was no way she could win this fight, or she was just too tired to try.

Either way, I won.

I leaned against the tile wall, now slick with condensation, and watched her fingers go to the buttons on her shirt.

They worked slowly, fumbling over each button as she exposed more and more of her perfect body to me.

When she shrugged out of the shirt, pulling the stiff, dirty fabric from where the blood had dried like glue, my breath caught.

Not because of her perfect tits. Though they were perfect—firm, perky and just big enough to fill my palms or smother my cock as I slid it between them. What caught my attention was the dark red-purple bruise on her shoulder.

“Who?” I asked, staring at the molten colors, trying to control the fire burning through my veins.

Whoever had dared to touch her was going to face my wrath.

My heart stopped as I thought about the way we had fought in her office.

Fuck. It was me. I was the one who’d bruised her.

I hadn’t been gentle.

I didn’t know I had to be.

If I had known that she had a bleeding disorder, I would have?—

My thoughts were interrupted when she rolled her eyes at me. “Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t you.”

“Then who was it?” I asked again, getting really tired of repeating myself.

“It was from getting myself out of that fucking chair,” she said as she got to her unsteady feet.

My hands ached to reach out and steady her, but I didn’t touch her.

What if I hurt her again?

“Does it?—”

“No.” She answered my question without me having to finish it.

“I was a little worried about internal bleeding because I hit that floor hard, but with the medication the doctor gave me, I’ll be fine.

It’s going to last in my system for several hours.

For a while, anyway, I’ll bruise just like a normal person. ”

“Good to know,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest again and waiting for her to unbutton her pants and drop them.

God, she looked good.

Practically edible, even with bruises adding marks of toughness to her. Proof that she was a warrior who was every bit as formidable as I was. Even if her explanation didn’t completely ease the tension in my shoulders.

She stepped out of the pants and took a shaky step toward the shower.

“All of it, Zoya.”

Her shoulders slumped as she raised an eyebrow at me.

“All of it,” I repeated, my voice husky with restraint. “I want to see what belongs to me.”

She pushed back her shoulders, sticking out her chest as she reached behind her.

Any other woman would either be trying to seduce then fuck me for my money and my power or hide from me because they were afraid of me.

Zoya did neither of those.

She stared me down as she unhooked her bra, daring me to look, daring me to take her all in.

I did. God, I did. Her tits were flawless—flushed and tipped with pale pink nipples already taut and begging for my lips. My cock twitched at the sight of her panties damp against her thighs. She was pretending not to want me, but her body didn’t lie. It never did.

Then she slid her hands to the waist of her simple black cotton panties and pushed them over her hips. They dropped to the floor on top of her pants.

“Happy?” She cocked her brow at me.

“Thrilled,” I said, taking a step closer to her.

She pressed her hand to my chest to stop me. “I don’t need you here.”

“I don’t care.” I effortlessly lifted her into my arms, ignoring the way she cursed at me and tried to fight me. Her hits were featherlight compared to what they were earlier.

Zoya wasn’t as strong as she liked to think she was.

She struggled for a moment, then gave up, her skin pressed against mine, her head resting on my shoulder, and it made me feel… needed.

I liked it more than I should have.

Zoya was so light in my arms, it was disturbing. No one had taken care of this woman. No one had ensured that she was properly medicated, fed, tended to.

Why the fuck did I want to take on that responsibility?

I stepped into the steam-filled shower, the water already hot, the scents of soap and iron mingling in the steamy air. She tried to twist out of my arms, but I tightened my grip around her.

“Stop fighting me.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

She stopped and collapsed back in my grip. Not because she was willingly obeying me. She would never fucking obey.

That was fine, because her body would always tell me what I needed to know. Right now, it was too weak to stand on its own, and more than that, she wanted to be in my arms.

Zoya wanted to be taken care of.

Even if she would rather die than admit it.

Gently, I set her down on her feet, directly under the hot water, back facing me. She swayed, and before she could topple over, I put my hands on her hips and held her steady.

I shifted one hand to her waist, the other cupping a shoulder to anchor her and let the hot water cover her body. It ran a rusty brown over her skin and down the drain.

For the first time since she woke up, her body trusted me before her mind did. She didn’t pull away; she didn’t knock my hands away. Zoya accepted my help, and some primal part of me deep down inside purred with satisfaction.

I wondered if she knew how unwise that was.

I threaded my fingers through her hair, careful with the bandage but not with the pressure. She liked my hands on her, even if she pretended otherwise. She leaned into me like it was instinct. Like she already knew who she belonged to.

Her breathing changed. What were once deep, even breaths came out in short, sharp inhales.

As I worked the shampoo through her beautiful blonde hair, she relaxed. Her hand reached out, pressing against the cold tiles, but she didn’t move away from me.

She melted back into me. Letting me wash her hair, massage her scalp, and I watched over her shoulder as her nipples hardened even more, her eyes sliding closed, her lips parting.

Would she moan like that when I had my mouth on her cunt, drinking down every whimper she swore she’d never make?

Would her breath stutter like this when I filled her so deep, she couldn’t think? Fuck, I needed to know.

Would her tits rise on every one of her short, shallow breaths like that when I ate her pussy?

I bet they would.

My untouched virgin warrior was enjoying this, and if I reached down and petted that tight cunt, there was no doubt in my mind I would find her ready for me.

Soon, maybe I’d give her what she wanted.

But right now, I needed to give her what she needed.

I was careful, methodical as I scrubbed her hair, and then tipped her head back under the rainfall showerhead to rinse all the shampoo from her now clean blonde locks. Never letting a single sud touch her bandage or get near her eyes.

The entire time, Zoya didn’t move. She didn’t flinch; she accepted my touch.

For the first time since I’d met this woman, she was perfectly still. She wasn’t plotting or calculating. She wasn’t fighting me or anyone else.

Zoya had given in to the moment of peace.

At least she did while I was washing her hair. When my hand moved from her scalp down to her body, running the soap over her skin, skimming the curve of her back to the dip of her waist, her breathing changed again.