Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(43)

Will’s cruel smirk flashes to the front of my mind and I feel my knees buckle beneath me. I have to find Max. I can’t be alone right now. I listen intently for any sounds — and notice the comforting pitter-patter of the shower running on the other side of the bathroom door. I stand in front of the door, conflicted.

We’ve already slept in the same bed together, and he’s stood guard over me while I bathed. He rescued me from almost certain death — or a fate possibly worse — and nursed me patiently back to some semblance of sanity. How much worse can it be for me to walk in on him in the shower? Never mind the fact that I’ve never actually seen any man naked, much less my instructor. But I’ll just go in but not look. I’ll give him the same privacy he gave me, while feeling that protected calm that only his presence can afford me.

There’s no one else I can trust in this city, no one else I know, and while that was isolating before, now it’s next to unbearable. I feel vulnerable, and knowing how capable Max is gives me comfort.

And I admit, that sweet, momentary lapse between us... The kiss...

That was the only thing that soothed me enough to get a truly good night sleep. The memory of his hard, masculine body wrapped into mine and keeping me safe.

I cautiously turn the knob and walk into the bathroom. A thick coating of steam embraces me as I shut the door behind me. It’s so warm, it’s comforting. Against the opposite wall is the fogged-up shower stall, with Max standing under the stream of hot water, his eyes shut. I bite my lip nervously, afraid that I may have overstepped my boundaries. I certainly don’t want to catch him off guard and freak him out. After all, even though we’ve skipped a lot of steps in our relationship with each other through the extenuating circumstances of the past couple of days, Max may not react very positively to my seeing him naked. Not that I can see him very clearly through the steamed-up glass panels of the shower stall, anyway.

I don’t know if that’s a godsend or a pity.

What I can make out through the fog are his enormous muscular arms, reaching up to shampoo his thick dark hair. My own body tingles at the remembrance of those arms around me last night in bed, holding me close, sheltering me from the bad dreams that haunted my thoughts. It surprises me just how natural it felt, how much it doesn’t bother me. Of course, when I think about what other people would say, I feel ashamed. Weak. But if it were purely up to me and my own perception of the situation, it would be a different story.

Because as inappropriate as it may be, I can’t help but feel at home with him in a way I never expected to. I’m sure a lot of that has to do with the fact that he’s responsible for saving my life. That’s a bond most people will never feel with another. But even before that, when I first met him and he caught me staring at him, I certainly felt something. A girlish crush, maybe, that was quickly snuffed out by how formal he was with me. But now I understand why he had to push me away, and why he needed to distance himself from others.

He’s not who he says he is. More than that, I don’t think he’s who he believes he is either. I see the goodness in him, but when I told him that, I felt him tense, like he didn’t agree.

As I’m standing here pondering the unusual depth of our dynamic, Max suddenly looks over and does a double-take at the sight of me. His green eyes flash brightly through the fog and I can see just the slightest hint of embarrassment cross his features. Instantly I feel guilty for walking in on him. I should have stayed put. But I just can’t stand to be out of his sight. The feeling that I’m being stalked, being watched, is ever-present. And Max is my comfort, for better or for worse, and whatever it happens to mean for the both of us.

To his credit, he makes no attempt to shield his naked body from me. I don’t think I could stand it if he did. But instead he simply goes on about washing himself as though I’m not here at all, which I’m thankful for. After all, I didn’t sneak in here to gawk at him — although I can see now that there is a lot to gawk at. I recall something I heard years ago about people in Europe being more open about their bodies and sexualities. At the time I had just dismissed it as some stupid rumor Americans make up so foreigners sound more exotic, but now I’m wondering if that’s part of why Max doesn’t even seem bothered to have me as an audience.

His body is perfectly sculpted, his arm and leg muscles bulging just enough to hint at the immense strength he keeps tethered. My eyes follow the line of his broad shoulders and back, narrowing down to his waist and his taut ass. When he turns toward me, unabashedly, I see his flat stomach with his carved abdominal muscles and below that…