Page 61 of Forbidden Mistress

And I believe him, that it won’t scar. But for the short time I have it, it will be my reminder of Hart.

Swinging my legs over the bed, I try to stand up, but the second my feet are on the floor and I stand, my legs begin to shake. He’s right beside me, catching me before I fall. I lean against his muscular frame, and he pulls me close.

“That’s how I know I’ve done my job well,” he chuckles. “When you have trouble walking.”

“Hardy-har,” I say, straightening. I glance up at him. “And how do I know if I’ve done my job well?”

Beneath the edge of his mask, his lips curl up into a devilish smile. “Oh, I think you know.”

A wave of heat flows through me. Lord. How does he do that? I just had an epic orgasm. How can he ignite my desire all over again, after only five minutes? His skills are seriously impressive.

I rub my hands over my face. Now that I’ve had my release, I’m bone-tired. It’s been such a long, emotionally taxing day. “I’m taking a shower.” When he steps toward me, I point a finger at him. “Alone, unless that means you’re taking off that mask.”

He falls back, his beautiful mouth dissolving into a frown. “If I want to shower,” he says defiantly, “I’ll shower, Little Fawn. If I want to fuck you in the shower, then I’ll fuck you in the shower.” He hesitates, standing straight and tall, his large arms folded across his hard chest. But he must see how tired I am, because he relents a little. “Come on, I’ll start the water for you.”

We head into the bathroom with only the dim light from the hallway. He tells me to keep my hand away from the light switch, which I obey. Then, he does exactly as he says, adjusting the water to the perfect temperature, then he opens the shower door to let me step in. And then—my God—he steps in behind me, mask and all. But the shower head is so low, the water doesn’t come anywhere near his face.

To my surprise, he doesn’t make a move on me. He unwraps a bar of soap, grabs a washcloth off a shelf in the gigantic shower and begins lathering the soap. The smell is amazing. It’s that really classy, gardenia smell, and I drink it in.

“Turn around,” he says.

I do as he asks, turning my back to him. He begins washing my shoulders, my arms, smoothing his way down my body. I’m so sore and so tired, I just stand there absently as he washes me. He’s so gentle, skimming over my stomach, to the tender space between my thighs, to the light flail marks he left on the insides of my legs and the cuts on my hip. So gentle. It’s incredible how he can be two things at once—powerful, violent, and commanding…but also gentle and so considerate.

He washes my entire body, then grabs a new washcloth and washes himself. After rinsing us both with the handheld shower head, he turns the water off and opens the shower. I step out onto the plush bath mat as he grabs a towel and begins drying me off.

I laugh, grabbing at the towel. “I’m tired, but I’m not that tired. I can dry myself.”

He ignores me, continuing to dry me off while water drips off of him. It strikes me, suddenly, that he’s such a good caretaker. Funny, because I don’t think of guys as being particularly good at taking care of other people. I guess it’s just because the guys I usually date are all about themselves. Even my orgasms are happy accidents in their worlds. If I have one, great. If not, it’s no skin off their backs.

Hart is different.

And he’s not mine to keep. He’ll never be mine.

Once he’s done drying me off, he towels himself off, then presses his hand against the small of my back, guiding me back into the bedroom. I crawl onto the bed, and he lowers himself next to me, pulling me against him. The little hairs on his chest are damp, and I rub my cheek against them.

This is heaven. This is what happiness is. A man who comes to see me when I ask him to, lavishes me with attention, and gives me brain-frying orgasms on command? I can’t help but feel like this is a fantasy. Maybe I’m sitting in a padded room somewhere, out of my mind, imagining all this…

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

I nestle even deeper into his embrace. “I’m just thinking how unreal this all is.”

“All of what?”

I shrug one shoulder. “Me. You. Everything. It feels too good to be true. I mean, I guess it’s temporary, anyway.”

“It is,” he says flatly.

I rise up a little, so I can twist and look up at him. “But does it have to be? You could stay. Or maybe I could transfer to a school in London. I don’t know…we could be together?”

I feel his entire body tense up. Oh, fuck. I’ve done that thing that I always do. I’ve said something wrong, and now he’s not going to bolt. Will he ghost me like all the other guys?

“Cassandra,” he says, and I know he must be pissed because he uses my name, which he hardly ever does. “There is a lot you don’t know about me, and if you did…” his words trail off.

I tense immediately. “What? If I knew what?” I ask.

Talking to this guy is like chasing my tail. Nothing ever makes any sense, and of course, why would it? He never explains anything. Everything is secret, even his face.

Maybe in his real life, and in his business life, he never has to explain himself. He just barks out orders, and people trip over themselves to follow his commands. But I’m asking him to do it now.

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