She frowns, but thankfully doesn’t protest. I’m not sure I’d have the strength to deny her if she did. Grabbing the rag, she stands and hands it to me.
“Will you wash me now?” Her voice is timid and hopeful. My pulse skyrockets at the thought of touching all her intimate parts.
There’s no other choice to be made except to give her what she wants, even if I’ll burn in hell for it.
I grab the rag and squirt more soap on it, then rub it together until there’s a good lather. She turns around so I can wash her back first, pulling her hair over one shoulder. Her back looks smooth and blemish-free, and I wonder what it would feel like against my lips. Her tattoo has healed nicely and is a stark contrast to her pale skin.
I pull in a deep breath and begin on her shoulders. I try to detach myself from the situation, but there’s no goddamn hope for it. I rub the rag down her arm, moving slow and meticulous. As much as I shouldn’t be enjoying this, I am. So much so, I’m not sure which I like more. Her washing me or me washing her.
After her other arm is done, it’s time to work on her back. I take my time, knowing the lower I go, the harder it’s going to get. With her upper and middle back done, there’s no other choice but to move downward. I keep my eyes averted from her ass as I wash the plump globes. For a woman who’s kept herself locked in a house for years, she’s very firm and trim.
I bite back a curse when I move to her legs and she parts them a few inches. My eyes get caught on the lips barely poking out, glistening from the water or, God forbid, her arousal, I’m not sure which.
Fucking Christ.
I quickly wash her legs and get back to my feet. My willpower is crumbling fast, and I need to get this done so I can get the hell away.
As soon as I’m standing, she turns to face me. Her lip are parted and her breaths are coming in little pants. Her eyes reflect little green emeralds as she gazes up at me with… desire.
I squeeze the rag in my hand, soap and water landing on my feet.
She licks away the water on her lips and grabs my hand with the rag and guides it to her collarbone. Slowly, she moves our combined hands over to the other side. I hold my breath when she next moves them down. When her hand falls away, I keep going, feeling her supple flesh through the rag.
I breathe heavily, my chest aching as I more than wash her breasts, I massage them. The rag slips from my hand, but I don’t bother picking it up. My palm cups the underside, and I glance down, seeing the stark contrast of her pale skin against my tanned hand. Her pebbled nipple is a beautiful deep dusty rose with little bumps around the areola.
When she lets out a breathy moan, it snaps me out of the trance I’m in.
What in the fuck am I doing?
I release her and stumble back a step, horrified by my actions. I know what we are doing is what she wants, but it’s not what she needs. She doesn’t need my dirty hands on her pristine skin. She doesn’t need my vileness touching her, tainting her.
“Aziah?” The quiver in her voice sends a sharp pain to my sternum.
I turn around and brace my hands on the wall, dropping my head.
“I can’t do this,” I say, my voice coming out a guttural whisper.
“Why?”
“Because you deserve better. I can’t give you what you need. And because you can’t possibly be ready for what you’re asking.”
Her hand touches my back, but when I stiffen, it falls away.
“You’re exactly what I need,” she whispers brokenly. “And I am ready.”
“No,” I growl back at her. “Please.” I soften my voice. “Just leave.”
I can feel her heartache radiating off her, and it only intensifies my own pain. A moment later, there’s a rush of cool air as she steps out of the shower, leaving me alone.
I’m a bastard for hurting her, and I’m a bastard for not giving her what she wants. I shake with the need to give in to her. Despite her past, Rella is pure. She’s beautiful, sweet, caring, and compassionate. The complete opposite of me. There’s nothing I can offer her but dark memories and a bleak future. Hell, it was because of me she cut off a man’s dick today and watched me brutally slaughter him.
I rear back and slam my fist against the tile, disappointed when my skin stays intact. Hating myself more in this moment than I ever have before.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
RELLA
I SIT ON THE SIDE OF HIS BED, with the towel wrapped around me. My heart hurts, and I don’t know how to make it stop. I don’t know how to get through to him. His guilt consumes him so much he can’t see past it to the amazing future we could have together. I know in my heart Aziah and I are supposed to be together. I’ve always felt a special connection to him, even after our shared Hell Nights. I’ve never thought less of him or felt anything but love and friendship toward him. Why can’t he see that? What can I do to make him believe he is worthy and good enough?