Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77205 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
The bathroom was sleek and modern with more exposed brick walls, and one of those shower niches with a three-quarter glass wall you could just step behind. The tile inside was a deep gray, as was the sink cabinet.
“Ugh,” I grumbled at my reflection. I’d caught glimpses of myself in the storefronts and car windows as we passed, but it was a whole different kind of awful up close and personal like this. Even with the dim lighting in the bathroom.
My skin looked paler than usual, which only made the blue and purple of my bruises stand out all the more. The little scratches all across my face and arms from branches when I ran and the underbrush when I fell looked worse than they felt.
But it was the neck bruises that were really upsetting.
My good hand rose to touch them, feeling the memories come flooding back. The way my chest burned, my face went fuzzy, how my pulse started to slow as I got closer to death.
Close.
God, it had been so close.
My eyes stung, and I fought to keep the tears at bay. I wasn’t going to cry in a stranger’s bathroom. At least not while he was awake. Maybe I could cry later when I was sure he was asleep.
Until then, I had to hold it together.
“There’s extra toothbrushes in the bottom drawer,” Silvano’s voice called as he moved past the door.
“Thanks,” I called back, quieter, because my throat was starting to hurt like hell. Like strep throat, without actually being sick. The doctors mentioned pain like this, especially when trying to eat or drink.
It would just be a couple of days, maybe a week or so. Then I would start to feel normal again. I could begin to put my life back together, make other plans.
I brushed my teeth and washed some of the grime off of me, letting out a soft cry when there was a knock at the door.
“You good?” Silvano asked, popping his head in.
“Privacy, much?” I snapped.
“Door’s got a lock,” he said, pushing it open, revealing a set of clothes in his hands. “Figured you want to get out of that dirty outfit,” he said, waving at me.
“That’s really nice,” I said, looking longingly at the clean clothes. “But I don’t think I can change yet.”
“Turn,” he said, sighing at me.
“Turn for what?”
“So I can take off your shirt without staring at your tits,” he said, making a strange flush spread over my chest.
Embarrassment, surely. Nothing else made sense.
“You don’t have to—“
“Wouldn’t offer if it was some kind of major fucking inconvenience,” he said, shrugging as he set the clothes down on the sink counter.
Something about his brusque demeanor set me at ease enough to turn away from him, positioning so that he couldn’t see anything in the mirror either.
“I can’t lift my other arm,” I said as I raised the one with my cast.
“Don’t gotta,” he said, moving in close, making me suddenly aware of a spicy scent that clung to him. Body wash? Cologne? I had no idea. But it smelled good. And I was picky about that kind of thing.
He reached out, his surprisingly rough hand grabbing the elbow of my arm on the bruised rib side, then yanking the shirt down so it stretched to free the arm through. Then it was over my head and off of the other arm.
“Brought a zip-up,” he told me as he reached for the hoodie, sliding it on one arm, then the other.
Then, despite me being completely capable of reaching down to zip it myself, even if I would struggle a bit with the cast, his arms went around me, closing me in, as he slid the zipper up.
Then, almost without warning, he was grabbing the waistband of my pajama pants, and yanking them down and off.
With his hoodie on, my modesty was protected, but I felt another swarm of heat as he bent in front of me.
My mind—clearly still dealing with the effects of the pain medicine, since nothing else made sense—flashed with dirty images of him on his knees, but with me bare, with my leg over his shoulder, and him looking up at me with hunger in his eyes before his head dipped and his tongue…
“Gotta lift your foot up,” Silvano said, making me jolt out of my unexpected little fantasy to find him looking up at me.
“Right,” I agreed, lifting one foot up, my good hand slapping down on his shoulder as my balance faltered.
Could he see what I’d been thinking?
Was I as flushed as I felt?
He got each of my feet in before starting to pull the material up. But in doing so, his knuckles grazed my thighs.
There was no rational reason for the way the barely-there touch made a shiver course through me, making my belly flip-flop.