Page 33 of Savage Desires
"Don't let go, beauty. Let me take care of you."
He guides my head back under the water, running his hands through my hair. He pulls me out of the spray and shampoos my hair. His fingertips feel like heaven as he massages my scalp. He rinses the soap from my hair, then washes it twice more before he's satisfied. He smooths conditioner into my hair and then meticulously washes my body. He doesn't linger on any one spot, keeping things as platonic as a man washing a woman can be. Unfortunately, my mind conjures up thoughts of those hands doing much more than perfunctory washing. He guides me back under the water, rinsing the conditioner from my hair, then shuts off the shower.
Goosebumps pebble my skin at the loss of warmth. He lifts me from the shower, setting me on the plush rug. I feel like I should protest. Maybe tell him I can take care of myself even though that would clearly be a lie. He wouldn't help if he didn't want to, right? He doesn't give off the vibe of a man who does anything he doesn't want to do.
He wraps me in a soft towel and then steps away. I look at his muscular body and pray I'm not drooling. He's a masterpiece of muscles and tattoos. I'm slightly disappointed when I see he's wearing black boxer briefs, though as wet as they are, they do nothing to hide his thick length. He's hard. I try not to read too much into it because any red-blooded man would get an erection when pressed against a naked woman. I want to believe it's because of me specifically. That I turn him on, and it's not just because I'm a naked body like all the men who paid for me saw.
Such a stupid girl thing to think.
He wraps a towel around his waist, covering his hardness, and I push away my disappointment. What the hell did I think he would do? Whip it out and show me how hard I make him? Tell me to suck him off? Fuck me?
Ugh.
Why do I want him to do all of the above?
For the first time in my adult life, I actually want a man, and he's the most inappropriate man to want. He definitely doesn't want me. He shouldn't want me, and I shouldn't want him. He saved me—that's it. Once I know what my next steps are, I can let go of my attachment to him, and he can go back to his normal life—one where he's not got a woman with a severe case of transference attaching herself to him.
Kisten picks me up again and carries me to the bed. He finds a clean t-shirt in the dresser and helps me put it on over the towel. If that doesn't scream, "I don't want to see you naked!" I don't know what does. He helps me get situated on the bed, then covers me with a yellow quilt.
Kisten goes back to the bathroom, closing the door without a word. I collapse into the pillow mound behind me, mentally scolding myself for every inappropriate thought I've had about him. The bathroom door opens, and Kisten strolls out fully dressed, looking more relaxed. My dirty, awful mind wonders if he's so relaxed because he just jerked off. I bury that thought. He probably relaxed just from being away from me. This situation has to be stressful for him too.
There's a knock at the door, and an older woman pokes her head in. "I come bearing gifts."
"Come in, Gladys," Kisten says.
She doesn't hesitate to push the door open. She bustles in carrying a tray full of food. I have no idea what it is, but it smells delicious. Kisten takes the food-laden tray from her and sets it on the bedside table.
"Willow, this is Gladys."
"Hi," I say, feeling ridiculously shy.
Gladys has short silver hair and friendly blue eyes. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth speak of years of smiles and happiness. She's short and plump. Everything about her screams loving grandmother—not that I know what that is like. My father's parents were dead long before I was born, and I don't remember my mother, let alone any of her family. My dad is literally the only family I have.
"I'm so glad to see you awake. Gave us quite the scare, young lady," she scolds lovingly.
"Sorry."
She smiles and pats my leg. "It's okay, deary. I'll leave you two to eat. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you," I murmur, overwhelmed by her kindness.
Kisten picks up the tray and arranges it on my lap. I nearly drool. It's a simple bowl of soup and grilled cheese, but it looks like a five-star gourmet meal to me. The first bite of soup tells me that it's not chicken soup from a can. There are juicy pieces of chicken and thick noodles. The broth is delicious, warming me from the inside out. The grilled cheese is decadent. Buttery and crisp with melty cheesy goodness.
I only manage a few bites of each before my stomach is uncomfortably full. I look at the leftovers longingly. I hate to waste it. If I was at Mecca, I would hide the rest of the sandwich and force down the soup until I felt ill. I'm tempted to do it anyway. Kisten moves the tray off my lap before I have a chance to gorge myself.
I feel sick with guilt over wasting such amazing food—any food, really.
"What's wrong, love?"
"I hate wasting food…"
He frowns, probably understanding better than most why it bothers me so much. Even though he has already eaten a large bowl of soup and two sandwiches, he picks up my bowl and finishes it before eating the rest of my grilled cheese. I watch with wide eyes.
"Why?" I ask.
"It upset you to have unfinished food. I fixed it," he says, like it's the simplest thing in the world and not one of the most thoughtful things another human being has done for me.
Who the hell is this man?