She’s staring at me expectantly, a hot blush on her cheeks, waiting on my answer. The hand she doesn’t have wrapped around my arm tugs nervously at the bottom of her shirt. She’s scared and worried, so I don’t understand why she would ask something that obviously makes her uncomfortable.
Of course, the thought of her asking another man sends a blind rage through me.
“Rella.” I say her name softly. “You can’t possibly want that. You have no idea what you’re asking.”
Her chin begins to wobble, and she bites the inside of her cheek. Her eyes flick away from mine for a brief second. “Yes, I do.” She looks back to me, her spine straightening in determination. “I really don’t want to be alone right now.” I track the movement of her other hand and see her rubbing the top of her thigh. “I’m not using this to coerce you, but you asked me to tell you when I felt the need to hurt myself. It’s there, Aziah, and I’m not sure I’m strong enough to stop it.”
I bite back a curse, knowing that need is my fault. I pushed her into emotional turmoil. I made her think about all the horrible times in her life. It’s because of me that she feels lost and alone. It’s because of my sick and depraved need to have her punish me, the person I’ve hurt the most, instead of me doing it myself. For years I’ve cut into my body, hoping beyond hope it would alleviate some of my guilt. It never does. Now, I’ve hurt her instead. Again. It’s a never-ending cycle. It’s like I was born to hurt her.
Can I really give this to her? The better question is, am I capable of denying her?
I’m not. I’d give this girl the moon and the stars if she asked it of me.
I nod silently, giving in and hoping like fuck it’s not something I’ll regret later. Or worse, she’ll regret.
Relief flashes over her face before she gives me a small smile.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “Would you mind turning around and getting in first?”
I nod again, because apparently, I’ll do anything she asks.
Turning my back to her, I slip my sweatpants down my legs, my hands trembling. I hear rustling behind me, knowing she’s taking her clothes off too.
Keeping my back to her, I step inside the shower and put the key on the shelf in front of me. The water is ice cold when it first hits me, and it takes several moments to warm up. I don’t hear her entering the shower, but rather sense her behind me.
I still don’t turn around, not ready to see her naked or the distress on her face from seeing me the same way.
The muscles in my back constrict when I feel a sponge on my back. I don’t move, and I hold my breath when she gently runs the sponge up and down my spine, taking care around the fresh wounds.
“These are hauntingly beautiful,” she states, and I know she’s referring to the tattoos. “Do they have meaning?”
I’m so distracted by her cleaning me that it takes me a minute to respond. “Yes.” Every tattoo I have on me means something. Most represents the dark parts of my past and how it makes me feel.
The sponge slides over my shoulders, then stops and disappears. Warm breath feathers across my flesh, and I tense when she lays her forehead between my shoulder blades.
“Are all of these scars from your father?” she inquires, so quietly I can barely make out her words.
Her question has memories resurfacing. Ones I wish I could forever forget. The heat of my father’s belt on my back. The sting of a switch tearing into my flesh. The pain I’d feel for days afterward. The hatred that grew each time he hit me.
I blink away the memories and the phantom pain.
“Most of them,” I answer, my voice hard.
“And the others?” she croaks.
I keep my mouth shut, not ready to answer that question. It’s bad enough that I had her hit me with the belt; I don’t want to horrify her even more by telling her it’s a common request of mine.
Thankfully, she doesn’t press the issue.
I release a rush of air when she lifts her head, but I turn rigid again and my hands ball into fists when she lays a kiss on my back where her head just was.
“Will you turn around?”
I clench my teeth and suck in a deep, fortifying breath. I brace myself and turn around slowly, keeping my eyes on her face. She hasn’t been under the spray yet, but there’s still tiny droplets of water on her face from the mist. Her hair is damp at the ends and close to her scalp. Her face is still red, and her eyes are slightly swollen from crying.
Her eyes leave mine and drift down my throat, across my torso, then widen when they land on my cock. I feel like a sick fucking pervert when I let my eyes roam over her body. Long, graceful neck, small breasts, a trim waist, and flat stomach. There’s a small scattering of hair covering the hidden spot between her legs. Her skin is pale and flawless.
She has the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen. I’m ashamed and hate myself when my cock takes notice. My eyes land on her thighs, and my gut spasms at the fresh cuts. My gaze jumps to hers.