Page 16 of Savage

“It’s so cold.” I try to blink my tears away, but I can’t make them stop.

Savage takes the showerhead off the handle and turns the water on. He holds it up to his own hand first, and when he seems happy with it, he crouches down and turns the water on me.

I yelp, but it’s not cold like I was instinctively expecting—like it always was at Ntimacy. It’s warm, bordering on too hot, but I lean into it as my teeth continue to chatter. The tile is still so cold beneath my ass, and I manage to get up to my knees.

Savage pans the showerhead over my body, using his other hand to direct me as he pleases. He has me tilt my head back so he can get my scalp wet too, and I sob at how good the warm spray feels.

The water is soaking through Savage’s clothes, but he doesn’t seem to care about that. I notice he isn’t wearing shoes or socks, and I wonder if he was barefoot the entire time or if he took them off while still carrying me.

He doesn’t seem like the type to go barefoot, even in his own home.

Once I’m not shivering as hard, Savage sets the showerhead back onto its hook and lowers everything down, angling it so I’m still underneath the spray. He stands up and reaches for the shower gel and loofah in the wall nook.

I grope for the side of the shower, trying to get up, but I can’t move. I retch again, but this time, nothing comes up, and I end up sobbing as I sag down against the hard tile beneath my knees. I sit down, not bothering to try anymore, and lean my head against the shower wall as I try to peer at Savage through the stream of water.

He squats down next to me again, and without saying anything, begins to run the lathered-up loofah over my body. The shower spray is hitting him more than me now, soaking his shirt and messing up his hair.

There’s a slight curl to his hair now that it’s wet. And even in this dim light, I can see how clear his blue eyes are. Like he’s staring straight into my soul. I sob again, because why the fuck am I noticing something his appearance at a time like this?

I shudder, trying to shrink back, but he grabs me by the hair and pulls me close again, forcing me nearer to him. All I can think about is how I’m going to drown here in his eyes—or I’m going to throw up all over him, and I don’t know what he’ll do to me if I do. I gag, trying to suppress the urge, and I close my eyes.

The water is finally starting to warm me up enough to where I’m not shivering nonstop, but I still feel like I should be because of the way he’s looking at me.

He takes hold of my arm and lifts it up to run the loofah over it. He makes sure to wash my armpits, even, and I note a little hysterically that it’s been a few days since I shaved. Why did he buy me? What could he possibly want from me?

Savage lets my arm drop again and moves to wash my chest, lingering just long enough over my nipples that I wonder if it’s on purpose. He gets a little closer to run the loofah down my other side…

And now I can see, in stark clarity, the outline of his erection through his soaked pajama pants.

I swallow hard, trying not to shrink back again. I don’t want that harsh grasp on my hair again; it reminds me too much of patrons at Ntimacy who get impatient with me for not being fast enough or skilled enough. Is he going to make me get him off?

Maybe it would be better if I just took the initiative.

My head is spinning, and my nausea is damn near overwhelming, but I reach up with a shaking hand to run my fingers along the outlines of his soaked cock.

“Hands to yourself,” he says harshly. “I’m not done washing you.”

The words shock me, and I stare up at him for a moment. I snatch my hand back, feeling a little wounded somehow even though I can’t understand why.

Savage shakes his head and moves to crouch between my legs, pushing my thighs apart. My lip wibbles as he begins washing the insides of my thighs, borderline caressing the skin and making me want to shift uncomfortably.

He ignores my discomfort and keeps washing until the only place left is my cunt.

I squirm, not wanting to be touched there. It’s ridiculous; I’m hardly a virgin, and this is far from the first time someone has touched me without my consent. But he’s so clinical about this that it makes me feel like I disgust him somehow.

Savage sets the loofah aside, but he grabs a washcloth hanging on a small hook and pours soap on it. I gasp when he spreads my pussy and begins rubbing the cloth between my folds, giving me a thorough, impersonal cleaning. Even though I can see his erection—even though his thumb lingers on my clit and massages small circles around it—I still wonder if he’s actually aroused at all.

I feel too ill to be, yet I can’t help but shift beneath his touch, restless and wanting more even as I want to tell him to stop. I know better, though, and I don’t want to make this worse on myself. I bite my lip against another wave of nausea, wishing he’d just let me give him a hand job and be done with it.

I let out a whine when he lets go and stands up. He unhooks the shower head once more to rinse me over again, then turns the water off.

“Can you stand?” Savage asks, still glaring at me.

I don’t understand how he can be so cold with me and still take care of me like this, but I don’t like it. I feel like a burden, and I hate that I feel guilty about it. He bought me. He refused to give me even a single dose of anything to keep the withdrawal at bay. I shouldn’t care about whether he has to clean up my vomit and my body.

“I don’t know,” I admit, my voice a low rasp. I try to get up, only to fail when the wave of dizziness brings me back down, hard, onto my knees. I wince, but my knees are used to worse than smooth tile.

Savage takes my arm and helps me up, although my knees are still so weak that I end up leaning against him for stability. Shit. He’s still warm, even in his wet clothes. The t-shirt conforms to his abs, highlighting just how muscular he is underneath.

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