Page 9 of A Vow So Soulless

That’s never been a problem for me before. I do what needs to be done – always – but I take my time and I do it with my head screwed on straight.

Only problem is I haven’t had my head on straight since that summer day when Deirdre and the sparking music of her soul blew a big fucking hole in the middle of my life.

I look at her while she sits in the tub, so quietly oblivious to everything she’s done to me.

Deirdre slides down a little, tipping her head back until her hair is submerged in the water, then comes back up. She looks around, her tresses rust-red and sealed to the glorious curve of her neck meeting her spine. Her gaze seems to snag on something in the shower in the corner of the room, and she sighs and stills.

“What is it?” I ask, leaning forward until my chin comes down on top of my forearms.

“Nothing.”

“Deirdre.”

“I just wanted to wash my hair, OK? Is that allowed or do I have to ask permission first?”

“It’s allowed.”

Though I have to say, the idea of her coming to me to ask permission even for the most mundane things is appealing.

Can I take a shower, Elio? Can I go to class today, Elio?

Can I come for you, Elio?

Fuck.

“Whatever. The shampoo’s all the way over there. It’s fine. I’ll wash it tomorrow.”

But I’m already up, crossing over to the shower and entering the big glass enclosure of it. I scan the text on the bottles in here, grab the one marked shampoo, then figure she might want the others too, so I bring them all. Three in total.

I drop back down in the seat, straddling it once again. I put the other two bottles down on the stone floor but keep the shampoo. Deirdre holds out a wet hand for it, but I make no move to pass it over.

Instead, I peel off one glove, and then the other.

Then I squeeze the shampoo into my bare hands, lathering it up without looking at them. I lean further forward until my chest presses against the back of the chair and my elbows reach the edge of the tub.

“Come here.”

“I can wash my own damn hair.”

“I didn’t ask if you were capable of washing your own hair,” I say. “I told you to come here.”

Maybe it’s the baggage of this night weighing down on her slender shoulders. Or maybe it’s the fact that she knows she can’t win against me. With an expression of wary resignation furrowing her brows, she slides over to me, then slowly spins on her ass in the tub until her back is to me.

Merda, she’s got a gorgeous neck. And shoulders so lovely that they just about convince my agnostic ass that God must actually be real, because somebody had to have sculpted them. Beauty that fucking ethereal doesn’t just come out of nowhere. I’m not even entirely sure how someone so beautiful can exist in a world like mine at all.

Fuck me. Even her ears are pretty.

I don’t know if she’s turned me into that much of a needy fucking fool, or if she really is just that terrifyingly special, but in that moment I feel the truly feral need to stroke myself to climax while staring at her ears. Not her tits. Not her cunt.

Her fucking ears.

Cristo help me.

I ignore the twinge in my dick and instead focus on gathering up all that thick, sodden hair in my fists. But then she makes a small, whimpering sort of sound when I run my soapy fingers along her scalp, and ignoring my arousal becomes a hell of a lot harder.

I want to fuck her again.

And it’s not even lust driving me. Not just obsession or physical desire.

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