Page 56 of Ruthless Grace

I push the wet shirt off his shoulders. The heavy, crimson-stained cotton falls to the slate with a wet, heavy thump.

He stands before me stripped to the waist: a wall of scarred, muscle-bound oak. Pale silver bullet wounds mark his ribs. The surgical seam on his left forearm where I stitched him years ago gleams under the sconce light. But almost every inch of his chest, shoulders, and neck is covered in dark, drying blood.

I grab a soft linen washcloth from the heated rack, hold it under the streaming warm faucet, and lather it with unscented soap.

“Step in,” I whisper, looking up into his dark eyes.

Luca steps across the threshold into the glass enclosure. I step in right behind him, the scalding water spray hitting my back, soaking through my dark trousers and silk blouse, sticking the wet fabric to my skin.

The steam wraps around us, hot and claustrophobic. Immediately, Luca shifts his weight, angling my left side away from the heavy water spray and taking the brunt of the scalding cascade against his own broad back.

I lift the soapy linen cloth and bring it to his jawline.

Gently, with the slow, reverent precision of a surgeon cleansing a wound field, I wipe the dark crimson smudges from his face. The soap lathers against his rough stubble, turning pink as the hot water washes the gore away. I slide the cloth down the column of his throat, over his masseter muscle, and down onto the broad, muscular expanse of his chest.

Luca lets out a long, ragged exhale. His eyes close, his head tilting back against the wet slate wall as my hands move over his body.

“They thought you were in that car, cara,” he whispers, his rough voice vibrating against my palms as I wipe the blood from his collarbone. “They boxed the sedan in... they put round after round through the passenger door. They thought they were taking my wife.”

“I know,” I murmur, rinsing the cloth under the spray and working it down his bicep, washing the dark streaks off his skin until the water swirling down the dark slate drain turns clear. “I know, Luca.”

“I made sure none of them lived long enough to regret the mistake,” he growls, opening his dark eyes. The violent, feral light is still there, but it’s mixed with something far more dangerous, a raw, possessive devotion that consumes every inch of the air between us.

He doesn’t wait anymore. The restraint that held him in that armchair for hours cracks down the middle.

His scar-seamed hands reach out, unfastening the buttons of my wet silk blouse in seconds. He peels the soaked cloth off my shoulders, letting it pool around my feet, before his large hands find the button of my trousers, sliding them down my thighs alongside my damp lace.

I stand before him bare under the cascade of scalding water, shielded by his broad shadow.

Luca’s breath hitches violently in his throat. His dark eyes sweep over my body, tracing the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips, and stopping with agonizing, reverent gentleness at my chest. He avoids my left side completely, hyper-conscious of the Tegaderm seal and the tender tissue beneath it.

Instead, his large, calloused right palm cups my right breast—the uninjured side—with breathtaking, feather-light care. His hand cradles the weight of my soft skin like precious glass, his thumb sweeping over the flushed peak with a worshipping, gentle stroke that sends a sweet, unexpected shiver straight down my spine.

Over my sore left breast, he doesn’t press or squeeze. He slowly raises his left hand, hovering his palm two millimeters above the clear waterproof patch, his breath warm and trembling against my skin as if making a silent, fiercely protective vow to the wound beneath.

“Luca...” I choke out, my hands flying to his broad shoulders, my nails digging into his wet, muscular back.

He dips his head, his mouth devouring mine in a bruised, possessive collision that tastes of hot rain, soap, and raw survival. He groans into my mouth, his tongue sliding deep, claiming every corner of my breath while his thumb gently worships my right nipple, working it into a tight, agonizing peak.

His left arm wraps around my lower back, holding my hips anchored flat against his center while keeping his broad chest angled so not an ounce of his weight puts pressure on my left chest wall.

His right hand slides down from my breast, tracing the curve of my waist, dipping over my hip, and sweeping down between my thighs.

My breath hitches into a high, ragged gasp as his long, calloused fingers slide into my wet pussy.

“You’re soaking, Giada,” he rumbles against my jawline, his voice a dark, velvet rasp that vibrates straight through my core. “So hot for me...”

He cups my mound with his massive palm, his thumb finding my swollen clitoris under the streaming water. He circles my nerve endings with a firm, ruthless rhythm that sends electric, blinding shockwaves shooting straight to the base of my spine.

I tilt my head back against the slick slate wall, my dark hair plastered to the tile, my fingers tightening in his wet dark hair as my hips instinctively arch into his hand. He works me with surgical precision. The Don who slaughters hit squads now using those same lethal hands to drive me out of my mind with worshipping tenderness.

“Luca... please,” I sob, my voice cracking in the steamy mist as the coil in my belly tightens to an agonizing, razor-thin breaking point.

He lifts me by my right leg, hooking my thigh over his hip, pressing his hard, rigid cock flush against my pussy through the spray. His thumb speeds up against my clitoris, applying unrelenting, possessive pressure, driving me higher and higher until my vision flashes white and my chest heaves with shallow, frantic gulps.

“Look at me, cara,” he growls against my lips, his chest heaving, his fingers working me mercilessly while keeping my left side completely cradled and untouched. “Let me see you break for me.”

The tension in my lower abdomen coils so tight I can barely breathe. I am seconds, one single strike of his thumb, away from shattering completely in his hands⁠—