Page 56 of Reaper
"Fuck," I whisper, not because it hurts but because it feels too good, too intimate, too much like he's taking care of me in ways I'm not sure I know how to handle. The only thought I have to take back control would be to punch him in the face, and I might consider it, if it didn’t feel so damn good to have him taking care of me.
Taking care of me? What the fuck has gotten into me?
He turns me back around, and now his eyes do that thing again — seeing too much, looking too deep. The water streams between us as he cups my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone before his mouth finds mine. This kiss differs from the hungry, desperate ones from last night. This one is gentle, exploring, like he's memorizing the taste of me.
Shit.
My hands find the soap now, and I return the favor, working the lather across his chest, feeling the raised lines of his tattoos under my palms. Each scar tells a story I want to know; each muscle responds to my touch in ways that make heat pool low in my belly despite the emotional minefield we're navigating.
“That feels so good…” he murmurs.
“Shut up and let me scrub you.”
When my fingers trace the ink across his ribs, he sucks in a breath, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. "Adriana," he says, and there's something in the way he says my name that makes my chest tight.
I'm supposed to be in control here. I'm supposed to keep my walls up, keep this simple. But the way he's looking at me,touching me like I'm something precious instead of just another fuck — it's breaking down defenses I've spent years building.
I’ve already let him in so much already; wasn’t that enough? How can he want more when it seemed just minutes ago he’d gotten what he wanted?
“What the fuck are you doing?” I say, looking deep into his eyes. Which is a mistake; I should know better than to look into his eyes. I can already feel the icy wall around my heart melting.
“I thought I knew. But in touching you… I just can’t help myself. Turn back around.”
For some dumb reason, I shut up and do as he asks.
His hands reach for the loofah hanging from the shower caddy, and he works it in gentle circles across my back. The texture is rough but not unpleasant, and he's being so fucking careful with me, like I might break.
"If you think this is casual, what the fuck are you doing scrubbing my back with a loofah?" I snap, even as my body betrays me by leaning into his touch. "Luffas aren't casual."
He pauses for a second, then continues the slow, methodical scrubbing. "I can't help myself," he says, voice rough. "But don't worry. This is casual. It doesn't mean anything except that we're showering together."
The lie hangs between us like steam. We both know it's bullshit. The way his fingers linger on my skin, the way he's memorizing every inch of me with his eyes — none of this is casual. And the way my heart is hammering against my ribs, the way I want to turn around and kiss him until we both forget our own names — that's not casual either.
But I'm getting too deep. Too fast. This isn't who I am. I don't do feelings and tender moments and whatever the fuck this is turning into; my heart is hammering against my ribs, and there's this warm, dangerous feeling spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the hot water. This is exactly what I can'thandle. This tender shit that makes me want things I don't even have names for.
"Bullshit," I mutter, stepping away from his hands. Losing contact feels like a punch to the gut, but I ignore it. "This is exactly what I was afraid of."
I push past him and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel from the rack. The cool air hits my skin like a slap back to reality. I wrap the towel around myself and look back at him through the glass door. He's standing there with water streaming down his body, that fucking luffa still in his hand, looking like I just kicked his dog.
“Where are you going?" he asks.
"To make coffee." I wrap the towel around myself, tucking it tight. "And think about what really matters."
"Which is?"
I meet his eyes through the steam, forcing steel back into my voice. "Killing that son of a bitch Russian, Ruslan Volkov."
The words taste like metal and purpose, grounding me back in what I came here for. Not whatever this thing is between us. Not the way he makes me feel like I'm more than just rage and vengeance wrapped in skin.
Volkov. That's what matters. That's what I can control.
I hear the water shut off behind me as I walk out of the bathroom, but I don't look back. I can't. Because if I do, I'll end up right back in there with him, and I'll lose myself completely in whatever this thing is between us.
Volkov. That's why I'm here. Not to play house with a biker who makes my chest tight and my walls crumble with just a look; a man that I thought I wanted to kill, until I learned who he really is and the pain he’s put himself through, and how those eyes of his — those fucking eyes — stare into me in a way that wakes up parts of myself that just make me so damn uncomfortable.
Parts of me that want to let someone in — lethimin — in ways that I’ve never wanted to let anyone in before.
Parts that want to be loved and cared for and comforted because my life has been one hard-edged, lonely moment after another, diving into the darkest parts of society, hunting the absolute worst of humanity, and having no one to come home to at the end of the day for even so much as a simple hug.
