Page 26 of Brutal Heir
With a huff of resignation, I start with the waistband of my sweatpants. My fingers fumble a little, but I get them down. The compression shorts underneath are harder, tighter, and stiff against the burns, but eventually I get them off too. I don’t look at her. I can’t.
By some miracle, at least my cock is behaving, my entire body too tense to give into the heated sensations this woman ignites.
The worst part is the silence. The waiting.
I drag my shirt up and over my head, then peel off the compression garment. I don’t wince. I refuse.
The moment I’m fully undressed I hazard a quick glance over my scarred shoulder. Rory is turned away, facing the door, and the amount of relief that swells through me is palpable.
When I finally step into the warm water, it’s like being swallowed whole. The ache melts into the heat, and for a brief second, I let my head fall back against the tub. My eyes close.
And I breathe.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, but eventually, I hear the rustle of cloth and the soft thud of Rory’s knees hitting the bathmat. Even without seeing I know she’s beside me now, sleeves likely rolled up, gloved hands poised with gentle care.
“Start with my left side,” I mutter without opening my eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Rossi,” she murmurs, and I can hear the teasing smile under the formality.
I don’t reply. Can’t. Not when her hands dip into the water and begin to work. She’s efficient, quick, avoiding any spots still too raw. Her touch is… clinical. Careful.
She reaches a scar that splits across my ribs, one that never healed right. My whole body stiffens.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
I nod once.
But I’m lying. I’m not okay.
Because no one’s touched me like this since the fire. No one except the hospital staff has seen me like this. And every second her hands skim across my skin, every time her breath brushes my shoulder, I unravel just a little more.
The initial tension dissipates, and my body starts to react to her touch. That familiar heat begins to descend, awakening a hint of desire.Not the right time, coglione.
“Almost done,” she whispers, rinsing the cloth, mercifully keeping her gaze on my upper half.
And I hate that I want her to stay.
That I want her to keep touching me.
That I want her, period.
The silence stretches as she finishes, her fingers stalling for a fraction of a second on my shoulder, just long enough for me to notice. Just long enough to make my chest ache with something dangerously close to hope.
She clears her throat and rises, the water rippling as she steps away. “I’ll be just over there if you need help getting out,” she says, her voice tight now. Strained.
I don’t respond, allowing her to move toward the door. Then I let out a ragged breath and stare at the ceiling.
Fuck me.
What the hell is happening?
CHAPTER 12
MCFECKER
Rory
My hands are still shaking.I slam the door shut behind me, pretending it’s not because of the six-foot god in the towel I just helped bathe.
