Page 62 of A Trap So Flawless

“You can’t get that wet,” I said, pointing to the bandages on his neck. “Have a bath.”

He looks at me like I’ve told him to go dance naked with a chicken.

“I am not taking a fucking bath,” he says. He sounds offended by the very idea.

“What if I take a bath with you?” I don’t mean anything by it. I really do just mean I’ll have a bath with him and help him wash his back and stuff. Plus, I also need to get cleaned up after those stressful days in the hospital. But when something dark comes to writhing life in his gaze, I know he’s taken my comment entirely differently.

“Not like that,” I tell him firmly. “You need to rest.”

He unlocks, then opens the door. As I pass through it, he says, “No, pet. All I need is you.”

The bathroom attached to the primary bedroom has a bathtub separate from the shower. It’s a big, fancy one with claw feet and an undulating profile that makes me think of a jellybean. I run water into it, testing the temperature, then glance up. In the mirror, I see Darragh’s reflection in profile. He’s watching me. Just watching. Like the mundane act of me filling up a tub with water is the most fascinating thing he’s ever witnessed.

My cheeks heat with a self-conscious sort of pleasure.

“Aren’t you going to get undressed?” I ask him.

He takes a breath like he’s just been woken from sleep. His gaze heavy-lidded, he says, “You first.”

Well, fine. If I’m going to bathe, I’ll need to be naked whether I strip first or him. I do it fast, in case he tries to stop me, but he just keeps watching me with that focused fascination. I abandon my clothes in a heap and climb into the tub. I face him on my knees, leaning on the side and beckoning to him with one arm. “Come on.”

He doesn’t take much prodding. He undresses with a quick competence that I can’t help but find immensely attractive. The only thing that gives him any trouble is his T-shirt, but he manages to pull it off, grunting slightly, without disturbing any of his bandages.

When he gets in with me, the tub that seemed so large before suddenly… doesn’t. He leans back against his end, draping his arms along the rim, watching me as I dampen a cloth and turn to him.

“Do you want me to start with your back, or…” My question fades away as I’m struck dumb by the unadulterated power of his naked form. His tattoos are a dark contrast with the white of the tub, his arms long and so lazily draped, belying the power in them. I’m between his legs now, because he’s so tall that, even sitting up as he is, he takes up almost the entire bathtub.

He grabs my wrist and pulls my hand beneath the water.

“I want you to start here.”

Desire flames, licking along my spine, as he leads my fingers to his cock. The flesh is already stiff, and at my touch it jerks in the water.

I try to fight it. I’m supposed to be taking care of him.

But maybe this is a way to take care of him. To take care of us both. To lead us back to each other through the dark and the blood and the trauma that has been the background of every one of our interactions.

I let go of the cloth and take him fully into my hand.

He lets out a satisfied growl and palms my heavy breasts. His breath punches from his body when my nipples harden needily against his palms. He kneads roughly before sliding his hands to my waist, then to my hips, his fingers a possessive splay over my ass. He drags me closer, making a tiny tsunami of water slosh over his chest.

“Need your pussy,” he groans against my damp ear. “I’ve fucking needed it for days.”

And I can’t hold out. I can’t pull back. He drags me onto him, and I let him, needing him as badly as he needs me. I brace myself on his shoulders, careful not to press on the bandaged parts, then let myself lower.

But he’s too big to just sink onto him without any effort. I gasp, and rock myself, and then Darragh gives one impatient thrust, and he’s there, right there, all the way inside. A sacred, stretching burn.

As he fucks into me, his breath harsh at my throat, his cock ardent inside, I feel a tumult of emotion rise up in tandem with my pleasure.

“I’m sorry,” I find myself gasping between moans. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I made you go there. I’m so sorry you got hurt.”

“Sick of you saying sorry,” he grunts, thrusting suddenly harder, as if to punish me for the apology. He grips the sides of my face and devours my gaze with his own. “I’d follow you off a goddamn cliff, Valentina. And I’d do it with a fucking smile on my face.”

I think I’m close to crying.

I’m definitely close to coming.

“Just, next time,” he groans, grinding so fucking deep, “maybe fucking listen to me when I warn you not to walk so close to the edge.”

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