Does It Hurt? (66)

But that could never happen. Kev’s influence is too powerful and follows me no matter how far I run. Those are dangerous dreams, and they could get me in serious trouble.

Lost in thought, it snaps me back to reality when Enzo hits a sore spot, and I can’t hold back the hiss.

“Scusa, bella,” he murmurs quietly.

I lick my lips again, my heart doing odd twists and turns from the husky candor of his voice, and how intimate it sounds when he slips into Italian. All of this is intimate, and it’s almost too much to process.

“Bella means beautiful, right?” I ask.

“Si,” he confirms.

Shit, that shouldn’t make me happy. Even with his hatred toward me, he still calls me beautiful.

“And ladra?”

He’s quiet as he continues to massage the soap into my hair.

“You asked me for the truth, and I gave it,” I whisper. “Tell me one of your truths.”

After a pause, he says, “It means thief.”

My heart withers, though it’s only true.

“You ensnare men with your beauty, spin them into your web, and then steal from them. You’re a beautiful thief.”

“I guess I can’t really argue with that,” I mumble, feeling like my insides are crumbling to ash. That’s what happens when you stand too close to the sun.

“Turn your head,” he directs, his fingers reaching forward to grab either side of my jaw and twist my head toward the spray.

It smarts, the water deepening in color until eventually, it runs clear again. Even still, he doesn’t retreat.

“I think I got it from here,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder. “Thank you for helping.”

“It’s going to continue bleeding a little until it clots,” he tells me, ignoring my request. “Keep your hair parted, and I’ll patch it up the best I can when you’re done.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

Our eyes meet, and the fire-breathing dragon in my stomach grows angrier.

“Okay,” he parrots.

Slowly, as if he wants me to make sure I’m watching every move, he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms again and getting comfortable. Water is splattered all over the front of his shirt, and the floor is soaked. Yet, he doesn’t seem to notice anything outside of me standing beneath the stream staring at him with a puzzled expression.

A bead of water catches his attention, and I’m not sure which it is of the hundreds, but I know it’s trailing between my breasts and down the planes of my stomach. His tongue slides along his bottom lip, slowly and sensually, as if he’s imagining lapping it up.

Without looking away, I blindly reach for the body wash and squeeze that on my hand next. We’ve been using our own rags, but my hand will be so much more interesting.

Beneath his penetrating stare, I rub the soap between my palms, then cup my breasts, spreading the suds across them. The heat in his eyes deepens, and his nostrils flare. I can see the outline of his hard cock in his shorts. At some point, he must’ve readjusted, so it’s tucked in the band, and I’m disappointed by that.

“Concentrati, Sawyer,” he demands, his voice laden with desire. Concentrate. I can interpret that command.

Biting my bottom lip, I move my hands down my stomach, across my hips, and over my ass cheeks. He tracks every move religiously, as if the secrets to the universe will appear within the suds coating my skin.

Holding my breath, I watch him closely as I glide a hand toward my pussy. The muscle in his jaw pops, his teeth clenched tightly together. I brush my pointer finger across my clit, a tiny moan slipping free. His eyes rocket to mine.

“Attenta, bella. You shouldn't strain yourself with a head injury.”

“It doesn't take much to make myself come,” I say. “It's you who has to work for it.”

A thick brow rises, the challenge sparking his hazel pools.

“Is that so?” he croons. “Let's see it then.”

I hesitate, uncertainty beginning to taint the desire.

Enzo has probably seen me from every angle possible, yet all I can feel is an utter embarrassment at the thought of doing something so intimate. Maybe because the relationship between us has been built on cruelty from both sides, and so easily, he could use this as another opportunity to hurt me.

“My head is really hurting, I'm not in the mood,” I lie, turning away. My head does hurt, but I’m definitely in the mood. Or at least I was until I ruined it.

”Is that a lie, Sawyer?”

Shit. I don't know why I thought I could get away with that. Maybe because most people would take my word for it, considering I just suffered a head injury.

“Finish up,” he snaps, pushing off the wall and storming out of the room. I close my eyes in defeat, angry with myself for defaulting to the one thing he despises most. It's a habit. One I haven't figured out how to break yet.

Feeling dejected, I finish washing the rest of my body, then wrap myself in the tiniest towel I’ve ever seen. It might as well be a goddamn hand towel. My hair is still dripping wet, too sore to do much more than squeeze the excess water out as best I can.

When I enter the room, I find Enzo sitting on the edge of the bed, facing me with his elbows on his spread knees, fingers linked, and head bowed.

Hearing my arrival, he lifts his head, and I’m a little stunned to find his stare no less intense than it was in the bathroom. If anything, it's only strengthened.