Page 60

“I should shower,” I murmur, dragging a hand down my jaw. It’s a throwaway line, meant to break the silence, meant to redirect the weight between us before it swallows me whole. But when I say it, her eyes lift to mine.

She doesn’t look away and I remain locked in her gaze.

And then, she shifts off the bed and reaches for me. Her fingers find my hand, small, warm and steady, and she threads hers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like touching me, after everything , even with the blood stains on my hand, doesn’t shake her to her core.

She doesn’t speak.

Just gives my hand the faintest tug.

I don’t fight or question her. I just let her lead. Through the room and into the bathroom. The tiles cool beneath our feet, the lights dim and soft, casting long shadows against the marble and glass.

The silence stretches between us, but it isn’t awkward.

It’s taut and laced with tension so sharp it vibrates through my skin. I watch as she strolls into the walk-in shower and turns the water on.

I watch as she turns to face me, her gaze never wavering, even as she moves closer. Her hands rise to the buttons of my shirt. Slow and intentional. One by one, she undoes them, her knuckles grazing my skin with each movement.

My breathing becomes ragged.

It’s nothing to do with the pain beneath the fabric, but her.

The way her eyes track mine, locked like she’s studying the way I fall apart beneath her touch. Like she wants to remember every fractured reaction, every pulse, every shallow breath I take.

She peels the shirt back, and it falls to the floor in a heap.

Her fingers brush over the bandage on my shoulder and skim down my arms, leaving a tingling sensation that lights up every nerve in my body in its wake.

She bites down on her lower lip softly and doesn’t say anything.

She just keeps going. Down to my belt—my jeans.

Every movement is careful. Every second slower than the last. She undresses me like I’m something fragile, and it’s fucking ruining me.

I don’t know where this is going, and I should stop her, but I don’t.

When I’m standing there, stripped bare in every way except my boxers, she finally steps back and reaches for the glass shower door. Steam is already beginning to curl up from the tiles, fogging the mirror and blurring the edges of the room.

I follow her in.

The warm water hits my back and trails down the curve of my spine, over muscle, over blood.

But it’s her hands I feel most. She reaches for the cloth, lathers it with soap, and steps close, close enough that her breath skims my collarbone, that I can see the flecks of gold in her blue eyes.

She begins at my chest. Washes me gently, like I’m something righteous. Her hands linger; her gaze never leaves mine. Not once.

And neither of us speaks, because there’s no need.

Not when the air is thick with everything we’re holding back. Not when my hands curl into fists at my sides just to keep from pulling her closer. Not when her bottom lip trembles every time her fingers graze a scar she didn’t know existed.

She’s not just cleaning me...she’s seeing me.

And I let her.

Every exhale. Every inch. Every haunted breath.

Because if this is all I get, if this is the closest I can ever come to having her, I’ll take it.

The water at our feet runs red. Not hers. Not mine. The runners. The final blend of blood, sweat, and everything I couldn’t scrub away alone, washed off by her hands.

She sets the cloth aside, and for a moment we simply stand as steam thickens around us, water drumming against the tiles, our breaths caught in the humid haze. Her lashes are wet, her cheeks flushed from the heat, and still, her eyes never leave me.

I reach out, fingers grazing her wrist, then tug, gently, just enough.

She steps forward without hesitation, sliding under the spray so her bare feet brush mine.

The water hits her hair first, darkening each strand, curling it against her shoulders.

Then it soaks her dress, once sheer, now clinging like a second skin, tracing every curve I’ve spent too many nights trying not to imagine.

I look down, watching the fabric mould to the dip of her waist, the arch of her back. Her breath quickens, and so does mine.

I lift my hands slowly, offering her every chance to pull away, but she doesn’t. My fingers slide under the hem, peeling it up her thighs, over her hips, past her ribs. Her arms lift without a word, and the dress slips off her, soaked and heavy, falling to the floor with a dull thud.

She’s almost bare beneath the stream, completely mine to look at except for the matching white lace underwear hiding away the parts I’m desperate to see. But I don’t rush. I don’t claim or devour. I let my gaze trace her. Like scripture...like something saintly.

Then I step closer. Her breath quivers as I lean in, but I don’t kiss her. I press my nose to her jaw, slow and reverent, dragging it down the line of her throat. My lips follow, barely brushing, just enough to feel her tremble under my touch.

She’s shaking. Fuck, so am I. From restraint, from everything we’re not doing, and from everything we could .

One hand finds her waist, the other rests at the nape of her neck.

Her body melts into mine, warm and wet beneath the stream.

Still, I don’t kiss her. Not yet. This moment isn’t about taking, it’s about feeling.

Every pulse, every breath, every fragile, perfect second of being seen and wanted for who we are beneath all the ruin.

And in this silence, in this heat, I know with bone-deep certainty that I will never recover from this girl.

“Ares...” Jordyn whimpers softly as I nuzzle the base of her neck, pressing a tender kiss against her skin. Her fingers drift down my chest with a slow, deliberate touch, uncertain yet not hesitant. She knows exactly what she’s doing, what she’s asking for, without uttering a single word.

When her hands reach the waistband of my boxers, she pauses, lifting her gaze to mine as if seeking a silent affirmation. I offer her nothing but stillness, a quiet assurance that speaks volumes.

And it seems that’s enough for her.

With a quiet determination, she curls her fingers into the damp fabric and peels it down, her eyes unfalteringly locked onto mine. My cock springs free, hard and throbbing, and her eyes widen just a fraction before she licks her lips.

God damnit.

The air between us shifts, charged with an electric tension. I draw in a staggering breath as I stand bare before her, now completely exposed.

She steps back a half pace to take me in fully.

To observe. To absorb. And she does, her gaze sweeping over every scar, every cut, every old wound that marks the man standing in front of her.

She doesn’t flinch or turn away, as if she’s trying to commit to memory all the places that once broke me and piece them back together with just her eyes.

And then they lower to my cock again, hard and throbbing with need for her .

She licks her lips, slowly, whether it’s on purpose to torture me or instinctual, I don’t know, but I don’t miss the ravenous look that flames in her gorgeous eyes.

When our gazes finally meet again, a tightness grips my chest. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. I take a single step toward her, water sliding down my body, cascading between us, over her collarbone, her shoulders, the gentle curve of her hips. Her lips part slightly, yet no words escape.

So, I give her mine, low, rough, true. “You have eyes,” I murmur, my voice barely above a growl, “that make a man like me desperate to sin, bambina.” Her breath hitches, a soft intake of air, and I remain still, wanting her to feel it.

Every single word, every ounce of restraint I’m clinging to while she stands there, bare and beautiful, gazing at me as if I’m not the monster everyone else sees.

“And if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to lose what little control I have left.”

I could shatter this moment, could take her right here and now, drowning in her until every scar fades from memory. But not yet. Because this, this, is a form of worship I’ve never known. And I’ll burn in it for as long as she lets me.

She doesn’t speak at first.

Just watches me with those wide, storm-filled eyes that see more than I’ve ever let anyone close enough to witness.

She sinks to her knees in front of me like a fucking wet dream made from flesh, her hair plastered to her face, water cascading down her body in rivulets that make her skin gleam like she’s been dipped in liquid sin.

Her full lips part, and the breath that escapes her is a fucking siren’s call, hot and trembling, and it hits me like a punch to the gut.

My cock twitches, rock hard, already aching for her.

Then she looks up.

Her eyes, fuck, her eyes, are like twin pools of molten desire, clear and unflinching, and they lock onto mine with a hunger that makes my fucking knees weak.

There’s no hesitation, no coyness, just raw, unadulterated need.

Her voice, when it comes, is a whisper that slices through the air like a blade, sharp and deliberate.

“I want to taste you.”

The words hang there, heavy and electric, and I swear my fucking soul leaves my body for a second. She doesn’t say it like she’s trying to seduce me, no, this is something else entirely. It’s a plea, a demand, a fucking prayer all rolled into one. “Teach me, Ares.”

Jesus. My name on her lips is a goddamn revelation.

I’m frozen, my breath caught in my throat, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. She’s kneeling there, soaked and perfect, her small hands resting on her thighs like she’s waiting for me to give her the world. And fuck, I want to. I want to give her everything.