Page 105 of Ripped Veil (Ripped Bratva)

Growling wordlessly, I retreat to the door and close it. I grab two fresh towels off the rack in the corner and head back to her.

The shivering has subsided somewhat, but tremors still run through her body sporadically. She’s not making eye contact with me, either.

“We need to get you out of those wet clothes,” I tell her.

She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even meet my gaze.

Pushing back the guilt, I decide to fall back on anger. It’s an easier emotion to process for me. Roughly, I start pulling off her wet top.

I expect her to resist. That’s the whole point of trying to undress her myself. I’d hoped for some sign of life.

But she just sits there and lets me strip her.

My growl deepens. Once her top is off, I pull her down off the table and start undoing her jeans. They’re harder to take off and she doesn’t make any effort to help me.

But in the end, I manage.

I have to squat down again to tug the unforgiving fabric off her ankles. When I look up at her, she’s staring down at me with an unknowable expression on her face.

Somehow, it stills me.

I’ve been moving fast up until this point. I haven’t been trying to be patient or gentle. But the look on her face has me slowing down.

I get to my feet and finger the straps of her bra. She trembles again, but this time, I know it has nothing to do with her accident. She lifts her eyes to mine for the first time.

“Phoenix…”

The eye contact is impossibly intense, in contrast to the soft fragility of the way she says my name. It threatens to undo me.

Which is why I break it.

I unhook her bra and rip it off her shoulders. Her breasts spill out and I feast my eyes on them for the first time.

Her pink nipples peak up, hard from the cold water—and maybe from something else, too.

I resist the urge to touch them, to cup them, to suck on them. Instead, I twist my finger into the strap of her panties and pull them off her as well. The whole time, she sits there, allowing me to take liberties with her privacy.

Once she’s naked in front of me, I step back.

I look at her body. I don’t even pretend that’s not what I’m doing.

Then I sweep her wet clothes into my arms and walk over to the washing machine. The moment I’ve tossed them inside, I start undressing.

I can feel her eyes on me, but I don’t turn around. Not until I’m naked, too.

My cock is stiff as a fucking rod, but I make no attempt to hide that fact. I turn around and her eyes fall directly onto my hardness. Her chest rises and falls with faster, deeper breaths. And her legs tighten, as though she’s trying to tamp down her lust.

I remember vividly the night we’d fucked. There was something closed off, reserved about her. Every moan and gasp I’d wrested from her mouth felt like a victory.

I wonder if it would feel the same now.

What if I were to bend her over on that table and take her?

What if I forced her to kneel in front of me and take my cock?

Would she moan like she had the first time? Would she allow herself to lose control? Or would I have to fuck that self-consciousness right out of her?

I walk to the wicker cabinet in the corner next to the dryers and look through the small bounty of clothes there. I find a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring. Then I pluck out a dark blue t-shirt and walk back to her.

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