Page 73 of Filthy Little Fix

My thoughts are a fucking mess. He's listening to the water hit the tiles, but does he hear my breathing? The small hitch in my throat when I think about his hands on me? Can he picture this? The water sliding down my skin, tracing paths his fingers should be tracing, his thumb pressing into the hollow of my throat. I lean my head back against the cold tile, letting the spray hit my face. It should be him.

I need to know he's still there. I need to hear his voice.

"Do you often listen to your employees take a shower, mister?" I say. "Or should I feel privileged?"

I don't hear any movement, any shift in position. Just the soft sigh of leather shifting as he adjusts himself in his seat.

"It seems that I'm stuck babysitting a needy boy," he says. "You don't make this easy."

I grab the soap, running the bar across my chest, sliding down my abdomen, toward the throb that begs to be touched.

"Is this what you think of me?" I ask. The soap slips, and I follow it with my hand, glowing dangerously near my groin. "I'm a programmer,Mr. Volkov—we'reverymethodical," I say, teasingly. He knows I'm playing, and the sound he lets out is somewhere between a huff of frustration and disguised amusement.

"And this is your method? Getting my attention? It's a dangerous thing to have, Leonel."

Is he imagining this? My hand tracing the marks he left. The bruises that are the only art I've ever wanted to wear. The way my body responds to the thought of him. The way I'm already hard, throbbing with a need that isn't mine to control.

"Just being methodical. Making sure everything is clean. As you ordered," I lie shamelessly, too breathy. There's nothing clean about my thoughts right now. They're dirty, filthy, andevery single one of them has his name on it. I want him to come in here. I want him to push me against this cold tile. "Is there any part you'd like me to focus on, mister?"

His voice is deeper. Rougher. "Finish, Nyx."

That voice is going to be the death of me. It's an order, an unmistakable warning that I'm pushing the boundaries.

I don't give a single shit. I need him.

"You could always come in," I say, my voice low, letting the lust slip out. "Help me finish. I wouldn't mind."

A low growl of warning. "Finishyour shower."

I squeeze my cock. It's good, but it's not his touch. Never will be.

"Dante," I call his name. A plea. "Tell me how to touch myself for you, and I will."

This time, there is a pause.

The pause stretches.

Fucking hell.

"Dante," I plead. "I want your hands on me."

I hear the rustle of the armchair's leather as he stands. One. Two. Three heavy steps on the carpet. The sound of them stops in front of the bathroom door.

The doorknob turns. The door opens with a push, hitting the wall.

He enters the bathroom, closing the door behind him. His shoulders are broad, his suit impeccable. His eyes fix on me. He's not angry. He's far beyond anger.

He walks to the glass shower stall. Without hesitation, he opens the door and steps under the shower.

With me.

I leave the soap aside as the water soaks the expensive fabric of his suit. The black of his suit turns to pitch. The fabric clings to the muscle on his shoulders, his arms. Beneath it, his white shirt goes transparent, mapping every line of his torso. His leathershoes squelch on the wet floor. There's no time to process, no time to admire—he walks until his chest is pressed against mine, until my back slams against the tile.

Yes.

Hot water runs over both of us, mixing in the space between our bodies. He forces my chin up, forces my eyes to meet his.

Yes.