Page 51 of Ruthless Dream

“Why aren’t you naked?” My toes curl into the white porcelain. It’s a tiny shower stall, but he’s standing so close his button-down shirt is in peril.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?”

“With your two-in-one shampoo?” No, thank you.

He laughs, the hearty noise reverberating around the bathroom. “I’m not some fresher in uni. I’m a little bit more mature than that.”

“Why don’t you get naked?”

“Christ, woman, stop trying to get me naked.”

But I don’t like standing in the shower, the only one without clothes on. Hot water cascades over my back as I turn and begin unbuttoning Ciaran’s shirt.

He’s silent, his eyes thoughtful as he watches me work. I push the shirt off. He’s got on a dark undershirt. My fingers curl into the hem, pulling up.

A medley of tattoos fills his ribcage. I’d noticed the first night he kept me here, a sleeve on his right arm, but this is so much more. Most are black and white, and my fingers skim, tracing the illustrations, finding myself surprised yet unsurprised that he’s got artwork on his body.

My hands trail over his chest, down to his zipper.

In the dark alcove, with our clothes on, I’d seen little. My mouth dries as I take in his long, thick cock, and he’s not fully hard.

Ciaran takes my shoulders, turning me back around, making sure I stay warm under the water. I fall back into his chest, and he wraps his hands around my waist, holding me. His beard tickles my shoulder as his chin rests in the crook of my neck.

He grabs body wash, the scent of apples filling the bathroom. I remain lazy, leaning into him, while he massages small circles up and down my body. He washes every part. My shoulders, arms, his fingers light against my chest. He leans down, washing my legs.

When he stands back up, the soap suds wash down the drain, but he’s not done. His fingers are assured but gentle when they brush my pussy. I lift on my toes, sensitive.

“Do we need to get something?” he asks, his voice thick.

“I’m on the pill.”

I grab his hand when his fingers glide against my folds, one thrusting inside.

“I’m making sure you’re clean,” he murmurs. “Breathe.”

I do as he says, closing my eyes. Falling water fills my ears, and I lean back against him. I can’t help tensing as he touches me, but not out of fear or because I hurt.

I whimper, making a face when he removes his fingers.

“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” he hisses under his breath.

I keep pouting.

Ciaran turns the shower off, wrapping me in a thick towel. A T-shirt goes over my head, and then I’m placed in the bed, in the same spot as last time because apparently I already have a side.

“Do you need some paracetamol?” he asks, confusing me. “Advil?”

“No.”

He settles into his pillows.

“Ciaran,” I whisper when he shifts under the sheets.

He lets out a sigh, like I’ve just asked for some sort of hardship. “Adeline.”

“Please.”

In one night, I’ve begged him twice.