That doesn’t soothe the storm inside me. If anything, it makes my own memories roar.
Little me as bloody and beaten as my moon looks now.
I take another breath, nodding, and finish undressing her before stripping off my own clothes, leaving just my boxers.
A soft gasp.
My eyes snap to hers.
A blush creeps beneath the dried blood on her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she huffs out a small laugh. “Your tattoos are beautiful.”
As if her own weren’t as mesmerizing.
I take her hand, guiding her into the shower. The glass fogs, steam curling around us.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” she muses, eyes raking over me.
I shake my head, positioning her under the spray, watching as the blood washes down the drain.
She looks good in blood.
But I want it to be hers or mine. Never from someone else’s.
When the water runs clear, I spin her around.
She laughs—breathy, light, addicting.
Then the swell of her ass brushes against the tops of my thighs, and fuck me.
My cock throbs against the fabric of my boxers.
I grit my teeth, grabbing her shampoo, focusing on the simple task of washing her hair.
The second I massage my fingers into her scalp, she moans.
A soft, sinful sound.
My hands freeze.
She gasps. “Oh, that was embarrassing.”
I chuckle, low and rough. “You’re embarrassed by a moan but not by standing naked in the shower with a stranger?”
She snorts, and the tension eases just slightly.
I rinse her hair, adding conditioner before soaping up a loofah and gliding it over her skin.
Slowly. Gently.
Her arms. Her shoulders. Down to her breasts—where her nipple piercings glint under the water.
She whimpers when I pass over them.
Heat licks through me, primal and possessive.
I don’t let it show.
