Page 60 of The Hitman
He grabs the small towel I’ve thrown over the towel rack and squirts some of the liquid inside. I stand in the middle of the shower with my hands crossed in front of my chest, watching as he prepares to bathe me. When the towel is lathered, he approaches me with a singular focus, as if scrubbing my body is the most serious job he’ll ever do.
“Turn around.”
I do.
He gently moves my hair aside and runs the towel over my shoulders and upper back. He follows each swipe of the towel with his hand, and the contrast between the fabric and his slightly calloused fingers against my softest skin makes me swallow a moan. He moves down my back slowly. At this rate, we’ll be in here all night. I don’t hate the idea.
When he reaches my hips, I hear him move. When I turn around, he’s not there. I look down at the top of his head because he’s squatted behind me. His face is so close to my skin that he could lean forward and kiss my body without much effort. He’s watching the towel swipe through the suds over my skin with such dedication that I feel like a work of art.
“Is this a…voglia?” he asks. I don’t know that word, but his fingers run over the small constellation of moles on my right hip — a constellation of moles my sister, cousin, and I share.
“Birthmark,” I translate. “Yes.”
He nods and runs his fingers over the small moles again.
His hands and the towel move down each leg in turn. I lift my feet so he can run the towel over the soles and between each toe. When he’s done, he stands up, his hands moving across my skin again before settling along the curve of my waist.
“Turn around,” he commands.
And I do.
“I should have asked you sooner,” he says with a pained look on his face. “Is there anywhere you don’t want me to touch?”
If he weren’t in control, I would jump this man now and ride him into next week. Who cares about my return flight? “Anywhere. You can touch me anywhere,” I tell him.
I know that I don’t know this man at all — tragic childhood stories notwithstanding — but I can see that he’s swallowing a response in the way his Adam’s apple bobs, his breathing constricts, and his fingers flex against me.
“Si,” he breathes in a rough whisper.
He touches me just as reverently as before, but this time he works his way from my ankles up. The towel and his bare hand move up one leg and down the other. At my left ankle, he looks up my body and lifts his eyebrows.
“Open your legs, tesora.”
I spread my legs a bit.
“Wider.”
Just a bit more.
I don’t mean to bait him, but I’m not running from it either. I don’t know what I expect him to do, but I am not disappointed.
He stands quickly and presses me against the tile wall with his hands and his body. I can feel his hard erection against my stomach and my pussy clenches.
I feel empty. I want him inside me. I’ve wanted him inside me all day. “Fuck me,” I tell him.
“Spread your legs,” he repeats.
“Are you going to fuck me?”
“Only if you behave.” He says the word as a warning, but then his hips jut toward me.
“Are you lying to me?” I tease.
His jaw ticks. “I’ll fuck you,” he says, and it sounds like a promise, “when I’m good and ready. Now spread your legs.”
This time, I do as he says.
He swirls small circles over my left thigh as his hand travels up and between my legs. I suck in a harsh breath. His fingers mix with the running water and ghost over my pussy. He caresses the hair over my mound, running his fingers through the curly hair before he moves to palm my entire sex in his big hand.