Page 28 of Brutal Vows

More of his intense grey eyes roaming over me. More praises from his wicked mouth. More caresses from his callused fingers.

I even yearn for more of his skepticism.

My attention-deprived soul consumes his every gesture like a cactus soaking up as much water as possible during the rare rainy season.

I don’t know how to resist anymore now that I’ve had a taste.

I’m so screwed.

Chapter 8

Ermanno Mancini

I busy myself withorganizing the items on the counter to resist the urge to peek around the curtain. Even the sound of water sluicing down her curves tantalizes me. I roll my shoulders and fill my lungs to the point of bursting, triggering the residual ache from my last surgery. Even though it’s been eight months since the surgeon cracked my sternum open and fished bullets out of me, I still catch myself favoring my chest out of instinctual fear of the pain returning.

With my senses tuned to her every move, I stiffen when she sniffles. Worried she may start toward a full-blown meltdown, which might be preferable if she were Julieta but is most certainly not now that I know she isn’t, I ask about the least personal topic I can think of.

“What does your sister do at the clinic?” I ask.

“She’s a surgeon.”

The knot in my chest loosens when her voice emerges strong and even, and with more curiosity than I care to admit, I continue my line of questioning.

“What do you do?”

A rush of water hits the bottom of the tub as she rinses her hair.

“I’m an anesthesiologist.”

The blood drains from my face. I stare at my reflection as long buried memories resurface. Fate’s a cruel bitch for bringing me such an amazing woman and then revealing she works in the one medical field I despise.

What should have been a simple procedure became a rare medical case when my first anesthesiologist botched her job and destroyed the nerves in my legs. I rarely notice the lack of feeling below my knees nowadays, since I’ve learned to adjust to the pressure in my joints instead of relying on superficial nerve endings, but as a six-year-old boy who hopped so trustingly onto the hospital bed to have his tonsils removed, it was devastating. The only reason they got me on the operating table eight months ago was because I was already clinging to life by the barest thread.

“Ermanno?”

My heart lurches as she says my name for the first time. The uncertainty in her feminine voice grabs me by the balls and twists. I want to see her lips form my name before wrapping around my cock. My mouth waters as I imagine tasting her lips for the first time. I swallow, turn toward the shower, and lean back on the counter.

“Yes, Loretta?” I ask.

“I’m done showering,” she says.

The hardness in her tone challenges my control as she silently demands I keep my distance.

“Turn off the water,” I command.

To my surprise and disappointment, she does.

I snatch a towel off the rack and slip it between the curtain and the wall, but I don’t let go when she tries to take it. She tugs a few more times before growling in frustration and just holding it.

“Dry off, then hand it back to me.Capisci?” I demand.

Her audible swallow travels down my spine and pools in my groin.

“I understand,” she confirms.

I release the towel and step back. My mind supplies me with sensual pictures as I listen to the sound of the terrycloth rubbing over her flesh. I cross my arms over my chest and wait until her dainty hand slips through the tiny crack with the towel in her fist. I take it from her and hang it back up before lifting the folded fabric off the counter and slipping it to her.

After a moment of silence, she sighs and dons the garment before voicing her frustration.

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