He turns on the water and adjusts the temperature before pulling me to my feet and positioning me under the spray.
It’s too cold, but I don’t have the energy to complain.Even when he soaps a loofah and begins scrubbing me head to toe, I don’t argue.I should be embarrassed, but he’s seen everything anyway, so what’s the point?
With a melancholy sigh, I hold whichever position he moves me into, lifting my arms and legs and turning as he gently directs me with his hand and the scrubber.
He hangs the loofah on the wall hook and pushes me under the spray again before tilting my head back onto his chest and filling his palm with shampoo.
I die a million glorious deaths when he massages my scalp with the perfect amount of pressure.Suds leak down my face, so I close my eyes and fight against the urge to melt into a boneless blob.He presses his thumb to a sensitive spot at the base of my skull.I moan.
“Careful,paperotta, or I’ll fill that pretty mouth like I promised,” he murmurs.
Warmth pulses through my veins, but I clamp my teeth together and shake my head.
He guides me into the spray and rinses my hair.After conditioning my locks and washing my face, he reaches to turn off the shower, but I grab his wrist.
He cups my breast.Electricity zaps through me, but I reach for the loofah and soap and spin in his arms to face him.
“My turn,” I say.
His brows lift.A blush warms my cheeks.
“I mean your turn,” I correct.
“Why?”he asks.
I don’t have an answer, so I shrug.
“Eyes only on you, right?”
Surprise flashes through his amber orbs, but he hides it with hunger.
“Sì,paperotta.Only me,” he says.
I nod, step back, and work the soap into a lather before stalling out.There’s so much of him it’s hard to know where to start.Deciding to go with the most obvious, I place my hands on his pectorals.Bubbles squish from the loofah and trail down his muscles.
I clear my throat and set to work, intending to wash him as clinically as possible, but he intrigues me too much, and before I finish soaping his chest and shoulders, I’m lost in a weird spell cast by hunger and satisfaction.I feast on the visual delight of his body, but shy away from his jutting cock.
He allows it, but when I try to step around him, he captures my wrist, steals the loofah, and hangs it on the hook before turning his back to me.
My stomach sours and pain fills my heart.
He said my father stabbed him in the back and left him for dead.I didn’t want to believe it, but the proof is right in front of my face.
No wonder he hates me.I’d hate anyone associated with the person behind such a brutal attack, even if they weren’t directly involved.
When he looks over his shoulder at me, I avert my eyes and unconsciously glance at the loofah.
“It’s too abrasive.Use your hands,” Mario commands.
I swallow and fight against a wave of emotions.
“Unless they gross the pretty little princess out too much,” he snarls.
I shake my head and flatten my palms on his back.His muscles bunch in surprise.I bite my lip to hide my gasp of delight, but he chuckles and sends a scorching glance over his shoulder at me.
I run my hands over him, exploring every inch of his broad shoulders and muscular physique.He isn’t ripped like the gym rats on social media, but that’s mainly because he has more bulk on top of his muscles.He uses his strength in everyday situations instead of lifting weights or conditioning certain parts of his body.
I marvel at his size.If it weren’t for the scars, I’d think he was invincible.
