A shiver ran down her spine even as the hot water slid down her skin –
That was when she felt it.
His eyes.
She stilled, her barely calm heart picking up pace again as the water sluiced over her body. She was suddenly aware of the gush, of her entire being aware of the man standing at the glass door.
The man who’d never once entered the guest bedroom. The man who now leaned against the shower stall casually, watching her with the steady, ready eyes of a panther. The man who barefoot but still dressed in those clothes.
That was the precise moment she realized, looking down at his feet that – for some reason that made her nipples pebble – that she was naked. Completely naked. For the first time, she was nude to his eyes.
She didn’t like it, didn’t like the way he was watching her without her layers, no glasses, no clothes, nothing.
Stripped.
She felt raw.
Exposed.
Bleeding.
And he stood there, scenting her blood, watching her.
She’d asked him to control himself, and yet, there he stood, sporting the exact same bulge in his pants.
Morana breathed in, biting the inside of her cheek and moved her head up to face him, keeping her face clear of all thoughts and raised an imperious eyebrow.
Uh-oh.
Her eyebrow hit her hairline; his hand hit the glass stall.
And then he moved.
Straightening from his position, he stepped inside the stall, shrinking the previously big shower to something much smaller. His tall, broad frame dwarfed the walls and the ceiling. Steam swirled around him, clinging to his body, and dampening the fabric of his shirt. Morana watched, enthralled, as a drop of water condensed on his tight neck, right beside that infuriating vein, and rolled down his skin, into his now completely transparent shirt.
For the first time, in this close proximity, Morana saw with clarity the shadows of his tattoos littered amongst his numerous scars.
There was no way she was going to stand naked in front of him while he was still covered. No way.
Before he could make a move, Morana put her hands on the damp collar and tugged at his shirt forcefully, ripping the buttons off, sending them scattering on the floor, a strip of flesh bared to her eyes just as his hands came up to grip her wrists, his eyes inflamed.
All that cool control she’d witnessed five minutes ago… evaporated.
With bare feet, he stepped under the spray with her, pushing her back into the wall and turned her around. Her front was pressed into it, much like it had been at her father’s house.
Her heart thudded in her chest so rapidly she could feel her pulse in her ears, his body not pressing into hers but there, right there, hovering behind her. He was so close she only needed to lean back a little to touch his skin, the urge to do that so intense she brought her hands up to the wall and stayed still.
And for the first time, she felt his hands, on her bare skin.
His rough, big hands on her skin.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Morana felt his hand grip the back of her neck as the other one moved down the line of her spine, in a gentle touch meant to lull her into a false sense of security. It only managed to wind her up tighter instead, the water falling sideways on them, on the side of her good arm while the wounded one remained dry.
Morana knew she could stop him if she wanted. Except she didn’t want.
Somewhere along the way, she’d become so okay with wanting him, so okay with this lust she could feel coursing through her blood, that she was fine admitting it to herself. It didn’t make her hate herself any less, but the heady rush of sensation as his rough, calloused hands moved over her made her desire it.
She felt him lean down, his lips brushing over the shell of her ear as he whispered softly into her skin, his hand wandering down to the base of her spine, slowly drifting down to her ass with surety.
“This body belongs to me, Ms. Vitalio,” he murmured in a low voice, the whiskey and sin combining to make her head tip back over his broad shoulder as her stomach clenched.
“This body is mine,” she retorted, unable to recognize her own voice dripping in sex.
He continued, like she hadn’t spoken, cupping her ass. “I’m a territorial man. And this has been mine since the moment you locked that bathroom door.”
“That was one time,” she informed him, even as she knew there was no stopping them now.
“Then let’s make it a second, shall we?”
Morana could feel the anger simmering in his body behind her, the rage he’d been controlling, hear the shake in his smooth voice.
The hand on her ass dipped lower, his fingers brushing over her nether lips, before entering her with a certainty that made her close her eyes, the rough abrasions on his fingers rubbing her deep in the most delicious ways, wetting her even more than she’d been.
She heard the sound of his zipper going down and the tear of that condom before his leg spread hers wide apart. His hand moved to the base of her spine and pressed down, making her push her hips out and lean her weight on her arms against the wall.
Morana looked at the wall in front of her, her breasts heaving and heart pounding in anticipation.
She felt his arms cage her in like earlier and watched in fascination as his hands came to rest on the wall a little above hers to the side. Morana looked at their hands, so close and so apart, comparing the differences, the similarities. Both pairs of hands excellently talented in their respective fields, yet his was dark, rough, with veins and long, wide fingers, with blunt nails and a smattering of hair at the back. Hers looked so much paler, smoother, so much smaller, the tips painted a bright green.
Seeing their hands together like that, watching the thick forearms alongside her delicate wrists, something fluttered in the pit of her stomach.
No. She didn’t like that. Didn’t want that at all.
Morana closed her eyes, shutting the view, but the image was imprinted on her brain.
Gritting her teeth as anger filled her, anger at being unable to shake off something as trivial as their hands side by side, something so stupid, Morana pushed her hips back, wanting him to just get it on.
She felt the tip of his cock prod at her opening, and she inhaled deeply, her heartbeat erratic, the water pouring down over them from the side.
With complete, utter ease, he slipped into her slowly, inch by deliberate inch, making her breath catch in her throat at the sheer size of him. Fuck, she’d forgotten what he felt like inside her, filling every empty ounce of space, spearing through her walls in a way she hadn’t thought possible, making her back arch even more to take in all of him. She’d thought he would thrust in like he’d done at the restaurant and be inside.
He didn’t.
Instead, he pulled back a little, before pushing in again, easing into her, making her feel, truly feel every inch of him.
Morana hung her head as her palms pressed into the wall, her body lifting on her toes to allow some leverage, her hips pushing back into him.
He entered her to the hilt, her walls clamping down on him, the new angle penetrating her in ways that made her see stars, pressing into spots inside her she hadn’t been aware of.
And all this time, she kept her eyes deliberately closed, feeling him inside her but not feeling his torso against her back, aware of the distance between their bodies.
She was glad for it.
Because at the restaurant, it had all been easy to explain to herself, to blame it mainly on the fact that she’d been defying her father right under his nose with his enemy. There, having him pressed into her had been an act of rebellion. But in the shower, there was nobody she could blame other than herself, having him close a desire she didn’t want to define.