I even had the time, but I needed to prove to myself that I was still in control. That I could take her or leave her as I saw fit.
CHAPTER 16
ANNA
My fingertips wrinkled, and no matter how long I stood under that searing hot water, it didn't wash away the feeling of his hands on my body, his cock inside me, or the words that he had whispered in my ear.
I couldn't stand under the water forever, and regardless of how much I scrubbed, I still felt dirty, used, and mad at myself for not hating it.
Angry with him for knowing that I didn't hate it.
With my hair soaking wet and clinging to my back and the necklace still a heavy reminder around my neck, I wrapped myself in a towel and stepped out of my bathroom. And froze.
The scene before me was so wrong, my skin prickled with unease.
My cozy, lived-in apartment had been transformed. It was like organizer elves had broken into my home, swept out the chaos, and replaced it with order. The mountains of sheet music that were spread on almost every surface were gathered into one stack on my coffee table.
It was the only thing on my coffee table.
My books were put away on the bookshelf, the piles of clothes thrown over my couch were gone, and in their place were mymismatched throw pillows, arranged in a neat line that almost looked intentional.
And stranger still, my apartment smelled like food.
Actual, edible food that didn't come from a microwave or a takeout box.
The rich aroma of beef with vegetables and spices permeated the air, which could not have been right. The only food in my entire apartment was two-day-old pizza in a greasy box in the refrigerator and an array of random condiment packets from different takeout places around the neighborhood.
My stomach growled. How embarrassing. I clutched one arm around my middle to silence it.
Darius emerged from my tiny kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, jacket gone, revealing two full sleeves of tattoos that I had somehow missed last night. The ink wrapped around his forearms in dark, intricate patterns—Cyrillic script and what looked like Orthodox crosses woven through thorns. My pulse kicked up as I remembered those same forearms braced on either side of me on the sink.
"Why are you just standing there in a towel? Where is your robe?" he asked, his jaw set.
"I don't have one," I answered, like it was the most obvious answer in the world because it was.
A low, annoyed grunt sounded in the back of his throat, and without asking, he grabbed another towel from the laundry basket he sat down and wrapped it around my wet hair. His fingers grazed my neck just above where the diamonds sat and I flinched.
The touch was almost gentle, which somehow made it worse.
Then he grabbed another—except it wasn't a towel but a blanket from my secondhand sofa—and wrapped me in it, cocooning me, trapping my arms like I was a human burrito.
He grabbed my shoulders, maneuvered me over to the table, and sat me down in one of the wooden chairs that used to hold laundry and a few purses.
"What am I going to do with you?" he asked, more to himself than me as he worked on squeezing the water from my hair before raking his fingers through it.
"Let me go?" I asked hopefully. My eyes slid closed, and I leaned into the hypnotic pull of his fingers through my hair.
My stomach tightened; I silently berated myself for enjoying his touch. It wasn't like I could do anything to stop it. Still, I shouldn't have appreciated any of the things he did. Whether it was the way he made me come, the way he made my heart race, or how he straightened my apartment or ran his fingers through my short hair.
When he was done, he wrapped the towel around my shoulders and vanished for a moment. A few minutes later, he was back with a bowl of something that smelled like heaven. Like the perfect balance of hearty veggies and warm spices. It brought to mind sitting next to a fire after being stuck in a blizzard.
"What is that?" I asked, my stomach growling again.
"You did not have food," he said, a line of disapproval forming between his eyes. "You need to eat. How do you survive like this?"
"I had food," I argued. "There's a pizza in the fridge."
"No, there was one slice of something sad and inedible in a cardboard box. You need food that will nourish you." His disapproval grated on my nerves.
