Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(176)

Vengefully I stuffed the jeans back in the case and drew out a pretty, flowered a-line dress, instead then zippered up the cases for good.

Turning, I walked toward Carl who backed quickly into the hallway with a terrified look and his hands up around his ears. As soon as he was clear, I slammed the door in his face and snapped the lock into place.

That felt pretty good. At least he finally cares how I feel, even if he’s just afraid I’m going to hit him.

Peeling off my damp, sticky clothes, I turned on the bathroom tap and threw a washcloth under the water. A shower would feel great, but I wasn’t about to get naked with him anywhere near me ever again. The razor glinted at me from the corner of the tub and I stopped, washcloth in mid-air.

You know what, fuck this.

I left my clothes in a pile on the floor and turned on the shower full blast, stepping in when the steam was choking and too hot to bear. I scrubbed the coffee off me with the cloth, nearly scalding myself, rubbing too hard at my neck and underarms, suddenly feeling as though I’d been coated in shellac. I wanted it all off.

The soap felt good, and the too-hot water felt like the scour I needed. But still there was more. I wanted to peel him off me. I couldn’t even really think about it directly but the urge was distinct and undeniable: remove that man.

Taking the razor in my trembling fingers, I balanced my heel on the tub ledge and squirted a handful of foam into my palm. With my chin to my chest, I took a good look at my wide hips, my full belly, and the dark, untended triangle of pubic hair I thought was sort of feral and sexy.

One deep breath in, and I drew the shaving foam across my undercarriage and up through the triangle. Like cake frosting, I used my fingers to artlessly maneuver the foam into the crevices I could see through the dripping sheets of water that covered my eyes.

The first stroke of the razor chattered and hissed like a faraway conversation. It sounded rough and dry. I cleaned the razor and started again from as far back toward my ass as I could reach, around the side of my nether lips, to the front and up. Over and over, clearing more of a view with every stroke.

At some point I sort of realized I had never actually seen myself before: never bothered to look, certainly never seen my labia without their furry covering. That seemed weird: my boyfriends had seen parts of me I never had. Even strangers. Just a couple.

Checking myself out felt like unearthing an artifact I’d only ever heard about. The smooth, plump, dusky lips. The lighter pink center peeking out like a shy secret.

Hey. That’s sort of cute.

After a few moments’ thought, I decided to just shape the unruly triangle into an orderly one. What were ladies really doing with their pubic hair these days? I didn’t know, but I sure didn’t want to spend the next two weeks regretting some kind of dramatic all-bare action, so I figured this was conservative. Moderate, even.

I snapped off the tap and stepped out of the tub, dripping and freshly scoured, head to toe. My reflection startled me a little bit in the long mirror near the door. Usually I avoided it entirely, but in the foggy, steamy air I could barely make out my shape: too-curvy, too-wobbly, a lot of fleshy swells. But the neat, dark triangle in the center was like a bull’s eye. It made the whole image seem different, somehow, like I did the big girl thing on purpose.

Don’t get weird. You’re still the same girl.

But after I toweled off and slipped into my panties and dress, I could feel a difference. The newly bare skin sizzled as it slipped against the crotch of my panties. I’d never been aware of my sex before unless I was having sex, but as I leaned toward the counter for a comb - wow - there it was again. It felt kind of weird. Startling. And kind of great.

I ran my damp hands through my dark, wavy hair and tried to make it look less insane, but nobody in Chicago had good hair in the summertime anyway. A handful of humectant gel, a slash of eyeliner pen across each eyelid and a swipe of mascara, and it was done.

“This is it, girl,” I muttered to my steamy reflection. “Do it now, and do it for good.”

Vaguely amazed at my own sense of hustle and direction, I flung open the bedroom door again to see Carl still cowering in the hallway. He looked so frail and naked with his hands still up like I might hit him. I found myself filled with revulsion as I strode past.

“Bree, you can’t leave,” he insisted.

I rolled both cases down the wood-floored hallway and picked up my purse from the dining room table where she I dropped it.

“Brienne, we can work this out, please?”

Finally, I spun around. I looked him in the eye. Memories of all the other times I had looked into those eyes threatened to flood me with rage or sadness, I couldn’t be sure which.