Does It Hurt? (65)

“Those, too,” he says, voice deeper and huskier.

“These can get wet,” I argue weakly. “They are designed for that.”

He meets my stare, the muscle in his jaw pulsating. The moment he does, a deep throb pulses between my thighs. My pussy aches from a single look, and if that isn’t giving someone too much power, I don’t know what is.

“Take them off. Now, bella.”

The pulse intensifies, and he doesn’t miss the way my thighs clench, though I try to distract him by untying the strings around my neck and letting the top fall.

It reminds me of when we first met, and he took me behind the waterfall. It feels like ages since that day. Like we’ve lived entire lives.

I look away, focusing on a corroded spot in the cheap vinyl on the floor, but I can still feel him staring. Quickly, I untie the knot around my back and then let my bottoms drop, too.

Before I lose my nerve, I quickly step in the shower, though I’m forced to step within a foot of him to do so. Those twelve inches didn’t spare me from his heat any more than if I were standing twelve inches from the sun. What do those measly inches matter when I’m still being charred to ashes?

The hot spray immediately causes goosebumps to rise on my skin. I peek over my shoulder at him, finding him in the same spot, though his head is turned, and his eyes are locked onto my ass.

Thank God it’s not flat. It’s not big by any means, but plenty plump and round to attract the male gaze. Though these days, that’s not entirely hard to do anyway.

Just as he goes to meet my stare once more, I turn away, too chickenshit to face him. I grab for the shampoo, readying to squirt a dollop into my hand before he snatches the bottle.

“You can’t get soap in your wound. I’ll do it.”

“You don’t hav—”

“Did you think I came in here to merely watch?”

“I—well, I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past you to be a creeper.”

“I wouldn’t put it past me, either,” he retorts, squeezing out the shampoo into his palm. “Maybe that’s why I need to touch you so badly.”

I inhale sharply, shocked by his admission. His fingers sliding into my wet hair distracts me quickly enough, and I shudder as he gently massages soap into the red strands. Pink water floods beneath my feet, swirling down the drain as he meticulously works around the cut.

“Tell me about the shipwreck,” he says.

Instantly, I'm transported back into that cold ocean, disoriented and deprived of oxygen as powerful waves commanded my body.

“It’s all kind of a blur. I remember the terror the most and feeling so disoriented. But I saw you there floating, and I tried calling your name, but you wouldn’t answer. I swam to you and saw that you were unconscious and bleeding. All I could think about was the sharks.”

A shudder rolls through me, and I’m convinced it’s by pure divine intervention that one of them didn’t show up. Especially since this island tends to be a feeding ground for them, and they’re constantly nearby.

“I didn’t know what to do other than keep trying to wake you. I’m not sure how much time passed. I think I might’ve passed out for a moment, too, but I just recall seeing a bright light in the distance. It was just… there. So, I grabbed onto you, pulled you onto a broken piece of wood, and swam us toward it. Eventually, I saw the lighthouse, and it was the only thing that kept me going.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “How long did you swim?”

Fifty-eight minutes and ten seconds.

I needed something to focus on other than the burning pain in my muscles and the pure horror that anything could come up and eat me alive any minute. So, I counted every fucking second, muttering the numbers aloud as if, at any moment, I would wake up from the nightmare I was lost in.

“A while,” I tell him. “It felt like forever. But I got us there eventually, dragged us both onto the beach, and then passed out again. I woke up only minutes before you.”

He grows quiet again for a moment.

“You could’ve left me and saved yourself.”

I shrug. “It didn't cross my mind. But I don't know if it's because I'm all that virtuous. I would've rather struggled with you than be alone.”

His hands are unmoving for a beat, then resume.

“I called you weak,” he states. “Why didn’t you correct me?”

“Because I am—”

“You’re not,” he interjects, voice hard and unyielding. “You’re not weak, Sawyer. You’re exceptional. And I’m sorry I ever validated that misconception.”

My mouth moves, but I’m incapable of uttering a sound.

“You did something admirable. Imagine what you could do if you only believed in yourself.”

I have nothing to say, and I don’t think Enzo is interested anyway. Instead, I mull that over while he meticulously cleans my hair.

Kev backed me into a corner, and it feels like I’ve been snapping and growling at anything that has come close since. I’ve been so scared that I’ve forgotten that I’ve been fighting, too. I’ve been fighting to survive, to live, to have freedom. Just like I fought each and every wave that threatened to drag me under.

What would I be capable of if I just stopped running? If I lived my life as Sawyer Bennett. What would it feel like to walk in my own shoes and live without reservation?