Page 25 of Ruthless Savior
Instead, I think about the moment in the dining room when she'd tried to leave, when I'd grabbed her wrist and pulled her close enough to smell the scent of soap on her skin. The way her breath had caught, the way her lips had parted slightly, like she was thinking about kissing me.
Like she wanted me to kiss her.
I stroke myself slowly, imagining what might have happened if I hadn't let her go. If I'd backed her against the wall, run my hands through that auburn hair, tasted those lips that look so soft and perfect. My cock throbs in my fist, and I let out a hiss of pleasure, my head tilting back as I roll my palm over my damp cockhead and feel my muscles tense with the sensation.
Would she have kissed me back? Would she have made those small, breathy sounds that some women make when they'rearoused? Would she have pressed herself against me, let me feel how much she wanted this despite all the reasons it's wrong?
More than likely, she would have fucking slapped me. But somehow, right now, in the shower with my cock in my fist, the idea of that turns me on, too.
My grip tightens, and I imagine her hands on me, imagine teaching her all the ways a man can make a woman feel good. I have no doubt she’s a virgin—which means she has no idea what she's capable of feeling, no idea how good it can be when it's done right. Everything would be new to her. Intense.Special.I’d be her first for all of it.
I could show her. I could be gentle, patient, make her first time everything it should be, instead of the nightmare Rocco had planned for her. I could worship her body the way it deserves to be worshipped, make her cry out my name—make her forget about everything except the way I'd make her feel.
I run my fingers over my throbbing length, my mind running wild with images of her on her knees as I teach her how to suck my cock, her tight pussy clenching around my fingers as I slide them into her for the first time, her moans as I teach her what it feels like to have my tongue on her. I'm close now, my rhythm increasing as I imagine her underneath me, those green eyes wide with wonder and need, her hands clutching at my shoulders as I move inside her. I imagine the sounds she'd make, the way she'd move, the way she'd look when I finally pushed her over the edge.
The fantasy is so vivid, so immediate, that when I come, it's with her name on my lips, my release hitting me like a freight train and leaving me shuddering. My fist squeezes my cock, my cum spraying against the tiles as I come harder than I have in years.
The guilt hits me almost immediately.
What the hell is wrong with me?The woman is traumatized, vulnerable, completely dependent on me for her safety, and I'm standing in my shower jerking off to fantasies about her. Moaning her name as I come, like she’s mine to want, to imagine naked andmine.
She trusted me enough to tell me what happened to her—or understood my insistence, anyway—to explain how Rocco had planned to use her, and my response is to objectify her in exactly the same way. Different methods, maybe, but the same basic impulse—seeing her as something to be taken, used, possessed.
I turn the water to cold and let it beat down on me until the guilt and self-recrimination are almost enough to drown out the desire that's still burning in my veins.
Almost, but not quite.
Because even now, even hating myself for it, I can't stop thinking about her. About the way she'd looked in those clothes I'd chosen for her, like she belonged in my world, in my house. About the way she'd said "my room," like she was already thinking of it as home.
I get out of the shower and dry off, trying to focus on practical matters instead of the fact that, despite my orgasm and the cold water, my cock is still half-hard. Tomorrow, I need to start tracking Rocco's movements, figure out where he might be hiding. I need to check in with our contacts in the police department, make sure the warehouse fire isn't drawing unwanted attention. I need to call Annie and have her transfer some funds to cover Leila's mother's medical bills—if I'm keeping them separated, I need to make sure the woman gets the treatment she needs.
But as I pull on a pair of black sleep pants and head for bed, my mind keeps drifting back to Leila. To the conversation we'd had at dinner, the way she'd given in and been honest despite having every reason not to trust me. To the moment when she'dthanked me for saving her, and I'd seen something in her eyes that looked almost like…
What?Attraction? Gratitude? Desire?
I don't know, and that uncertainty is driving me crazy.
Or maybe it’s just more than two years of unsatisfying sex and being otherwise celibate that’s finally getting to me. One beautiful, young, desirable woman in my house, and my hormones are going insane.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the house settling around me. Ida and the other staff have gone home for the night, Finn and the boys are at their own places, and it's just me and Leila under this roof, aside from the security patrolling the house.
I've never been the kind of man who takes advantage of vulnerable women. But with Leila, the lines feel blurred in ways that scare me.
I want to protect her, yes. Want to make sure Rocco never gets another chance to hurt her, want to reunite her with her mother, want to give her back the life she had before desperation drove her into the arms of a monster.
But I also want her in my bed. Want to teach her what her body is capable of, want to make her mine in every way that matters. Which makes me exactly the kind of man I've always despised.
The irony isn't lost on me. I spent a year and a half married to a woman who saw our relationship as a business arrangement, who despised me and went out of her way to make sure I knew it, who made it clear that my touch was something to be endured rather than enjoyed. And now, when I finally meet someone who makes me feel alive again, she's here under circumstances that make any kind of relationship between us impossible.
But that doesn't stop me from wanting her. Doesn't stop me from lying here imagining what it would be like to walk downthe hall, knock on her door, and tell her exactly how I'm feeling. Doesn't stop me from wondering if she'd slam the door in my face or invite me in.
It doesn't stop me from getting hard again just thinking about the possibilities.
I consider taking care of it again, but the guilt from earlier is still fresh, still sharp enough to cut through the haze of desire. Instead, I force myself to think about other things. About Rocco and where he might be hiding. About the council and how long they'll wait before deciding our feud is bad for business. About my father's expectations and how much longer I have to resolve this before it becomes something bigger than I can handle.
But even those concerns can't completely distract me from the knowledge that Leila is just down the hall, probably lying in bed thinking about her mother, about how to get home, about anything except the man who's keeping her here.
The man who saved her, yes, but also the man who won't let her leave.
