Page 62 of Cold Bastard
“What?”
“A shower.” He gestured toward a door on the far side of the room, his movements casual and unhurried. “You’re covered in sweat and tears and my cum. You need to be clean.”
My stomach twisted. The casual way he said it, like he was discussing the weather, like this was normal, like we did this every day, made me want to scream. Made me want to claw at him until he showed some kind of emotion, some sign that this meant something.
But I didn’t. I just stood there, staring at him, my legs trembling beneath me, trying to understand what game he was playing now. Trying to figure out if this was kindness or control.
“Come on.” He turned and walked toward the door, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the dim light filtering through the hallway beyond. He didn’t look back to see if I followed. Didn’t wait for my answer. He just expected me to obey.
I did. Because what choice did I have? My feet moved before my brain could catch up, as I followed him like a puppet on strings I couldn’t see but could definitely feel.
The bathroom was large. Larger than I expected, and far more spacious than any bathroom I had ever been in. Black tilescovered the floor and walls, sleek and polished to an almost mirror-like finish that reflected the overhead lighting in glossy streaks. A massive walk-in shower took up one entire corner, the kind I had seen in luxury hotels or million-dollar penthouses. No curtain. No door. No frosted glass for privacy. Just open space with multiple showerheads mounted at different heights along the wall, each one angled precisely, like they had been installed by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
Nano turned on the water, adjusting the temperature with careful precision, as his fingers turned the chrome knobs with practiced ease. Steam rose almost immediately, filling the room with warmth and moisture that clung to my skin. The air grew thick and humid, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket. He turned back to me, his dark eyes meeting mine with the same unreadable expression he always wore. “Strip.”
My hands moved to the hem of my tank top before I could stop them, before I could even think about what I was doing. Muscle memory. Survival instinct. The same instinct that had kept me alive over the years, that had taught me to obey without question, to comply before things got worse, before pain became punishment. I pulled my shirt over my head and dropped it on the floor, the fabric landing in a soft heap on the black tiles. My shorts followed, sliding down my hips as they pooled around my feet. Then my panties, the last barrier between me and complete vulnerability. I stood there naked, exposed, my arms crossed over my chest in a futile attempt at modesty, my eyes fixed on the floor because I couldn’t bring myself to look at him.
“Hands at your sides.”
I dropped my arms.
“Look at me.”
I lifted my eyes slowly, reluctantly, feeling the weight of his command settle over me like a heavy blanket as my pulse thundered in my ears. He was staring at me with that sameclinical detachment, his gaze moving slowly over my body with deliberate precision. Not leering. Not hungry. Not filled with the desire I had seen in other men’s eyes. Just... cataloging. Taking inventory. Like I was a specimen under glass, something to be examined and assessed. It made my skin crawl in a way that felt different from fear. Something colder, more unsettling.
“Good,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Now get in the shower.”
I stepped under the spray, gasping as the hot water hit my skin all at once. The temperature was almost scalding, but I didn’t adjust it. It felt too good. Too warm. Too much like relief after everything that had happened. The water cascaded down my face, my shoulders, washing away the grime and sweat. I heard him move behind me, heard the rustle of fabric against skin, the soft thud of clothing hitting the floor, and realized with a sinking feeling in my stomach that he was undressing too.
Fuck.
My heart started pounding again, harder this time, my breath coming faster and shallower. This was it. This was when he would finally do what I had been dreading. When the pretense would drop and his real intentions would reveal themselves.
He stepped into the shower behind me, and I felt his presence like a physical weight pressed against my back, even though he wasn’t touching me yet. The shower stall suddenly felt impossibly small, the steam thick and suffocating. But he didn’t touch me. Didn’t press himself against me. Didn’t grab my hips or run his hands over my skin. He just reached past me, his arm scantly brushing my shoulder for the briefest moments, as he grabbed a bottle of bodywash from the shelf.
“Turn around.”
I turned my back to him, my hands clenched into fists at my sides as my heart hammered against my ribs while I stared atthe tiled wall ahead, focusing on the grout lines to keep myself grounded. I felt the cool liquid hit my shoulders first, the soap thick and slippery, felt his hands follow a second later. And then he started washing me. Slowly. Methodically. Like he had all the time in the world and nothing else mattered but this moment. His hands moved over my shoulders, kneading the tension from muscles I didn’t realize were so tight, down my spine with deliberate strokes, across my shoulder blades with a pressure that was almost therapeutic. His touch was firm but not rough. Careful. Almost... gentle. Which somehow made it worse. Or better.
I couldn’t decide which.
I stood frozen, my breath caught in my throat, my eyes squeezed shut now as he worked the soap into my skin. Every nerve ending felt like it were on fire, hyperaware of every point of contact. He moved lower, as his hands slid down to the small of my back, his thumbs pressed into the dimples there before continuing over the curve of my ass. He didn’t linger. Didn’t squeeze or grope. He just washed me as if I were a priceless sculpture he was cleaning, something precious that required his complete attention and care. His hands moved to my hips, gripping them briefly before they slid down the backs of my thighs with long, sweeping motions, to my calves, circling my ankles. The water cascaded over us both, rinsing away the soap in rivers of white foam that swirled down the drain at our feet.
“Lift your foot.”
I lifted my right foot, and he washed it with deliberate care. Every toe, individually, methodically. The arch, as his thumbs pressed into my tender muscles. The heel, as his fingers worked in slow circles. Then the left, with the same meticulous attention. When he was done, he stood slowly and turned me around to face him, his hands steady on my shoulders. I kept my eyes down, and stared at his chest, as the water ran inrivulets over his skin, tracing the contours of his muscles, then disappeared into his dark hair below.
“Look at me.”
I lifted my eyes reluctantly, afraid of what I would see there.
His face was calm. Focused. Intense in a way that made my breath catch, like I was the only thing that mattered more than anything else in his world. He poured more soap into his hands, and worked it into a lather between his palms, then started on my front. My collarbones first, as his fingers traced the delicate bones. My chest, as his hands spread warmth across my skin. The swell of my breasts, as he cupped them and lifted them. His hands moved over them with the same clinical precision, thorough and unhurried, his thumbs brushing over my nipples and down my torso as he washed away the dried remnants of his cum.
I bit my lip hard, trying not to react. I tried to stay still, but my nipples hardened traitorously under his touch as my body betrayed what I refused to acknowledge.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed. He noticed everything. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t smirk or tease. He just kept washing, his expression unchanged. Down my stomach, his fingers splaying wide. Over my hips, as he gripped them firmly. Between my thighs, his touch became impossibly more intimate. I gasped when his fingers brushed against my pussy, the sensation electric, as my body jerked involuntarily, and my hands flew up to grip his forearms for balance.
