Page 105 of Victor's Lethal Desire
I want to be his. To have the life I never thought I'd get or deserve.
We kiss, and while it's gentle, it's somehow consuming, his tongue sliding against mine as his hands move all over me.
Victor pulls back and leads me into the en suite bathroom. The door swings open to reveal marble, glass, and warm light. The shower is surprisingly big, enclosed in glass panels. It's a luxury I've never had, and it feels surreal, especially while flying into the clouds.
I reach for the hem of my shirt, ready to pull it off, but Victor's hand catches my wrist.
"No," he says firmly. "Let me."
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. No one has ever taken care of me. Not like this or with actual tenderness.
His hands are gentle as he lifts the fabric, peeling it up and over my head. The cool air of the bathroom hits my skin, and I shiver. Victor tosses the shirt aside and steps closer, his gaze dropping to my torso.
His expression changes.
The polished, charming mask drops completely. His jaw tightens, and his eyes darken with something murderous. He looks at the bruise that spreads across my ribs, purple and black, a result of where the vest stopped the bullet.
Victor's fingers hover over the bruise, not quite touching, as if he's afraid he'll hurt me. Then, with agonizing gentleness, he traces the edge of it.
"I hate that you were hurt protecting me," he says, his voice low and rough.
The rawness in his tone catches me off guard. I smile, trying to lighten the moment. "It's nothing," I say. "Makes up for what I did when we first met."
Victor's gaze snaps up to mine, and for a moment, I think he's going to argue. But instead, he bends down and kisses the bruise gently, his lips feather-light against my skin. The tenderness of it breaks something open inside me, and I have to swallow hard to keep the emotion from overwhelming me.
He straightens and turns on the water, adjusting the temperature until steam begins to rise. Then he finishes undressing me, his hands steady as he unbuttons my jeans and slides them down my legs. I step out of them, and he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties, pulling them down slowly.
When I stand naked in front of him, I have no desire to cover myself, no instinct to turn away or hide. The way he looks at me, like I'm something precious, something worth worshiping, does something to me that squashes any self-doubt.
Victor strips out of his ruined suit, his movements unhurried. The fabric is torn, but beneath it, his body is perfect, all lean muscle and a perfectly defined figure.
He steps into the shower and holds out his hand, and I take it.
The water is hot, and it feels like heaven as it cascades over my sore muscles. Victor guides me under the spray, his hands sliding over my shoulders, my arms, my back. He takes the soap and lathers it between his palms before running his hands over my skin.
He's gentle with me. So gentle it makes my chest ache. He washes the blood, the sweat, and the gunpowder from my body, his touch soft, almost delicate. I try to touch him, to return the favor, but he gently moves my hand away.
"This is for you," he says, his voice firm. "Let me take care of you."
I smile, unable to speak, and let him continue.
His hands move over me slowly, washing every inch of me. He tilts my head back under the spray, his fingers working throughmy hair, massaging my scalp. The sensation is so soothing, so intimate, that I feel overcome with emotion.
I've been taught to be a weapon.
I've been used, broken, and discarded more times than I can count. I've been trained to kill, to obey, to survive. No one has ever handled me with such care. Having Victor touch me like this, like I'm something fragile, something worth protecting, cracks open a vulnerability I didn't know I possessed.
I don't want to feel this way. I don't want to need this.
But because of him, I do.
Victor rinses the soap from my skin, his hands lingering on my waist, my hips, my thighs. The heat between my legs builds, a slow, insistent ache that makes me shift restlessly under his touch.
He notices it. Of course he does.
Victor's lips curve into a small, knowing smile, but he doesn't push. Not yet. He washes himself, then shuts off the water and reaches for a towel, wrapping it around me with the same care he used to wash me. His hands linger on my shoulders, and when I look up, his dark eyes are locked on mine.
Neither of us speaks. We don't need to.
