Page 33 of Twisted Vows

Because of me.

Well, no fucking shit,testa di cazzo. Goddamnit, I’m the most detestable man on the planet right now.

As I realize the magnitude of my fuck up, all traces of my euphoria fade.

I carefully pull my cock out of her, hissing at the intensity, and lift my torso off hers, but the sight of my seed seeping from her glistening pussy is too tempting. I pause with my fingers poised at her entrance.

She doesn’t sob, but her shuddering breaths relay her misery. Even in her lowest moment, she refuses to give in.

I snarl and roll off the bed without pushing my seed back into her weeping pussy, knowing I won’t stop if I touch her again.

“Don’t move,” I demand before stalking into the bathroom.

As I turn on the shower and check the temperature, self-disgust and despair run through me. Some barbaric part of me thought another orgasm would make her anger and distrust fade away, but all it did was humiliate her and prove how self-centered I am.

Words didn’t create the problem, so words won’t fix the problem. Hell, with how she scoffed at my apology, words will most likely only make it worse.

Actions. All I can do to salvage the situation is to show her with my every move how much she means to me.

With the shower a little warmer than I prefer, I walk into the main room and pause at the sight of her back. Even though I saw the raised flesh when I was cleaning her after her nosebleed, my heart squeezes in misery at the signs of abuse. Several jagged scars crisscross her back, but the long, thin line running from her right shoulder blade down to her left hip sours my gut. Whoever beat her had no mercy.

If she had other signs of impact play on her body, I might think she dabbled in BDSM, but the scars look to have healed at the same time years ago, so she must have earned them in one terrifying experience. But I’ll never know if she doesn’t tell me.

My woman carries too much trauma, and I only added to it.

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches as I stalk around the bed. Her silent tears rip me to shreds, but when she shifts her gaze up to mine and glares, a sliver of relief wriggles through me.

I gather her into my arms and carry her into the bathroom. After setting her in the tub with her back propped against the wall and the shower raining down on her legs and hips, I place the soap in her hands but don’t untie her wrists.

“I’ll join you in two minutes,mia caramellina,” I warn before shutting the shower curtain and striding to the sink.

After washing my face and brushing my teeth—because I’ll ravage her again if I touch her while her taste still lingers on my tongue—I peel my bandages off my back and arm and grimace at my reflection.

With bite marks on my jaw, a massive bruise on my cheek, and my lip split from my crafty woman, my face is a mess. I smirk in pride, even though I know I’m the reason she had to fight so hard. My cock stiffens at the sight of the claw marks on my chest, so I grab the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and douse the gouges. I hiss in pain and wait until the bubbling stops before turning toward the shower.

The curtain ripples from her movements, but the rushing water is the loudest sound in the room. I take a hesitant step toward her. My heart grows heavy as I reach for the curtain.

With what I’ve put her through, most women would shake the reinforced walls with their screaming and sobbing. Her silence unnerves me.

I pull the curtain back.

She barely spares me a threatening glance as I step into the tub. Even when I block the water, she continues to scrub her body. Thick white suds cover her from neck to knee, but she’s not satisfied.

I detach the showerhead and lower myself to my knees in front of her, almost biffing it twice from how much soap covers the bottom of the tub. When I grab her wrist bindings and force her hands away from her body, she hisses and plants the sole of her foot against my sternum.

I drape the showerhead over my shoulder and pry the soap out of her fist. She growls and tries to retrieve it when I release her, but I ignore her antics and work my hands into a lather before focusing on her leg. With her foot already on my chest, I have full access to her ankle, calf, and knee, but I wait until she stops fighting before I wrap my fist around her ankle. She glares at me with skeptical eyes, so I keep my touch as clinical as possible despite my need to worship her.

When I slip my fingers between her toes, careful to avoid her blisters, she jumps and hisses. I smirk as I realize I’ve found another one of her sensitive spots.

Ferreting the information away for later, I ensure every centimeter of her foot is sudsy before grabbing the showerhead and rinsing her leg.

She continues to glare at me, but the wariness slowly morphs into reluctant acceptance as I swap her feet and clean her other leg.

Even though she thoroughly scrubbed her body, I rinse her until no soap remains and start over, using both my bare hand and a washcloth. My mouth waters and my cock stirs, but I let her drop her legs to the side, limiting my access to her pussy. I lather her throat, arms, breasts, and torso, cataloging every inch of her. When I lift her fisted hands to my face, she doesn’t fight, but if looks could kill, I’d keel over.

She’s magnificent. She wears her fury and resilience around her like a queen wears a cloak and crown.

I ignore my cock’s incessant throbbing and worship her with my hands, proving to her the care I gave her after her nosebleed wasn’t a onetime deal.

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