Page 111 of The Toy Collector

When her fingers brush over my nipple, I groan. “You’re playing with fire, Toy.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re literally surrounded by water,” she smiles.

I let her explore, loving the feel of her hands moving lower, tracing the cut of my hip bones, the trail of dark hair leading down. But before she can reach her destination, I capture her wrists, spinning her gently so her back is against my chest again.

“Didn’t you say you couldn’t afford any distractions?” I ask, my voice filled with gravel.

“I did,” she purrs. “But I—”

I interrupt her with a tisking sound. “And you said you needed to shave. Let me take care of you,” I rasp, dragging the blunt edge of my teeth along the vulnerable line of her throat. “You don’t have to do anything except trust me. Let me show you how well I take care of what’s mine.”

She shudders, the breath stuttering out of her in a ragged exhale. “Enzo,” she whispers, half in warning, half in surrender.

I curl my hand around her throat, my thumb brushing the rapid pulse hammering beneath her skin. Fragile. Frantic. Perfect. “Trust me,”I say again, softer now. A promise and a command layered in one breath.

The moment her head tilts back, baring her throat wider for me, I know she’s given in. “Fine,” she finally agrees.

I could tear the world apart in gratitude. My toy. My perfect, stubborn, beautiful toy.

Lifting her arm, I guide it up and back until she’s cupping the nape of my neck. The position exposes the delicate hollow of her armpit. She tips her head up, watching me with wary eyes, her lips a tight line of uncertainty.

Even her resistance is beautiful to me—not something to be crushed, but savored like the last moments before a storm breaks.

“Hold still,” I murmur, squeezing body wash into my palm. The scent blooms between us, jasmine and vanilla.

I cover the sensitive skin of her armpit in soap. She tenses at first, a flush crawling up her neck at the intimacy of this act. It’s one thing to let me fuck her, it’s another entirely to let me care for her in this way—to expose the vulnerable, ordinary parts of herself that no one else sees.

When I reach for her razor on the shower shelf, her breath hitches. “Enzo.” Her voice trembles slightly. “I’m not sure about this.”

“Do you trust me, Toy?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, worrying her bottom lip. “But I… ahh, I want to.”

“Good girl,” I murmur.

The razor glides smooth against her skin, revealing pale flesh in its wake. I rinse the blade under the spray, then return for another precise stroke. Her skin is sacred to me, and even the mundane act of removing hair is a form of worship when it’s her body beneath my hands.

She doesn’t relax until I’m almost done with the second armpit, the tension finally bleeding from her shoulders, her breath evening out to match the rhythm of my strokes. When I finish, I rinse away the remaining soap.

I press my lips to her forehead. “What else needs shaving?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“M-my legs,” she stutters.

“Sit on the edge,” I tell her, guiding her to the built-in bench in the shower’s corner.

While she obeys, perching on the edge with her knees pressed tightly together, I kneel at her feet like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is because it feels like I was born to worship at this particular altar.

With gentle pressure, I lift her right leg and settle it across my shoulder, my hand cradling her calf. The position opens her to me, exposes the slick pink of her sex, but I keep my eyes fixed on the task at hand.

“You don’t have to—” she begins.

I silence her with a look. “Yes, I do.”

Then I lather her shin and calf with careful hands, making sure the soap coats every inch before I gently press the razor to her skin. The first stroke reveals a path of silken skin, gleaming wet in the shower’s light. I continue with meticulous care, my movements slow, precise, reverent—each scrape of the blade a promise written into her flesh.

Her breathing stays even, controlled, but I can feel the tension vibrating through her, the vulnerability she’s offering without saying a single word. Each time I adjust her leg, she allows it, yielding to me inch by precious inch.

When I finish the first leg, I press my lips to the inside of her ankle, letting my teeth graze the delicate bone there. Her breath hitches, her pupils dilating as she watches me through the steam. I move to her other leg, repeating the process with the same careful devotion, mapping her contours with blade and hand and breath.

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