Then he rises to his feet and scoops me up, walks us out of the shower, and lowers me gently into the claw-foot tub. He turns on the faucet, and I start to relax as warm water rises around me and steam curls between us. I sink back against the folded towel he places behind my neck, closing my eyes.
For a long moment, I feel him watching me.
“Are you just going to sit there and watch me?” I ask, not bothering to open my eyes.
Then his hand moves—slow, almost reverent. He traces a line down my neck, over the curve of my breast, across my waist, letting the water glide over his fingers.
My eyes lift to his.
“Can I?” he asks, his pupils dilating.
I nod.
He slides my panties down my legs and drops them aside. I’m completely bare now, submerged in warm water, while he kneels beside the tub.
He picks up a soft cloth and begins to wash my body painstakingly slowly. First my arms, then my legs, then over the bruises that have formed across my sides. His movements are gentle, almost worshipful. The warm water laps my skin, soothing and heightening everything at once.
But I can feel the tension building in him. I notice his breathing has changed. His jaw is tight, and I can feel him fighting for control… andlosing.
I reach out with my good hand and press it flat against his chest, right over the dark ink of an angel I’m all too familiar with. His heartbeat is racing.
“Show me,” I whisper.
He gives me a questioning look.
“The real you. No more lies.” I add.
He stills before leaning in until his mouth is a breath away from mine.
“I never told you I was a criminal, but I never pretended to be someone else.”
“Touch me,” I whisper against his lips. “Like you used to.”
God, I just tried to run from him, and now I’m asking him to touch me.
It’s pathetic, but I don’t care. I need to feel something other than grief and fear. Just for a little while, I want him to erase the nightmare.
My good hand tangles in his hair.
I blink, my eyes darting between his eyes and lips. Then he closes the distance.
The kiss starts slow, deep, and searching. His tongue strokes mine with deliberate patience, like he’s relearning every inch of my mouth. I sigh into him, my good hand sliding into his hair. It has been months since he touched me like this, and it feels so good.
His hand slips beneath the water again, his fingers trace lightly over my inner thigh, teasing, barely touching where I need him. Then he circles my clit with feather-light strokes, drawing soft gasps from me.
“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs against my lips. “Just like you used to be.”
“Damiano…” I let out a shaky breath, my voice barely above a whisper as I rock against his fingers.
He slides one finger inside me, then two, moving with agonizing slowness—curling, stroking, learning me again. The pleasure builds gradually, warm and deep, spreading through my body like the heat of the water.
I moan softly, hips rolling to meet his hand. He kisses me deeper, still slow, still controlled. But I can feel his restraint beginning to fray.
His fingers move faster. Deeper. The heel of his palm presses firmly against my clit with every thrust. His kiss turns rougher—teeth nipping my lips, his tongue demanding more. Water splashes over the edge of the tub as my hips start moving with more urgency.
“Damiano…” I gasp his name like a plea.
He groans, the noise resonating against my lips.
