He might give in to the darkness I glimpsed in his eyes tonight, and the game, whatever it is, would end in some horrible way.
So I stand still and stare straight ahead, watching the water droplets roll down the steam-fogged glass wall as his soapy hands slide over my back, my shoulders, my arms… my sides. It’s torture of a different kind, and as his hands move to the front, spreading soap over my quivering stomach before sliding up my ribcage, I can’t take it anymore.
“Stop,” I whisper breathlessly, my nails digging into my thighs as his fingers brush the underside of my breasts. “Please, Peter, stop.”
To my shock, he listens, lowering his hands to my hipbones. “Why?” he murmurs, drawing me against him. His chest molds against my back as his erection presses into my ass. “Because you hate it?” He dips his head, his stubble rasping against my temple as he traces the outer rim of my ear with his tongue. “Or because you love it?”
Either. Both. I can’t think clearly enough to make up my mind. My eyes drift shut, and goosebumps pebble my skin as his tongue dips into the hollow behind my ear, turning my insides to liquid mush. I want to push him away, but I don’t dare move in case I do something stupid, like tipping my head back toward the tantalizing heat of that wicked mouth.
“What is it you’re afraid of, ptichka?” he continues in a soft, dark voice. “Pain?” He bites my earlobe gently. “Or pleasure?” His right hand inches diagonally along my stomach, moving toward the aching nook between my legs with insidious slowness. He’s giving me every chance to stop him, but I can’t—not even when I realize his destination. All I can do is take quick, shallow breaths as his callus-roughened fingers breach the top of my slit and leisurely part my folds, exposing the sensitive flesh within.
“No answer?” His breath is warm on my temple. “I guess I’ll have to find out for myself.”
The tip of his finger circles my clit, and my breath stutters in my chest, my mind going strangely blank. It’s as if every nerve ending in my body has come to life all at once. I’m hyperaware of his big, hard body pressing against my back and his stubble rasping across my ear, of his large hand resting low on my belly and the hot water spraying down on us. And that finger, that rough yet gentle finger. It’s barely touching me, yet my whole body feels like a coiled spring, each muscle rigid with anticipation.
Dimly, I register a strange sound, and realize it’s coming from me. It’s a moan, mixed with a kind of gasping whimper. It fills me with shame, but the embarrassment only intensifies my arousal, all my senses centering on the pulsing ache in the bundle of nerves he’s so cruelly teasing. I can feel the slickness between my thighs, and as his finger presses harder on the exquisitely sensitive flesh, the ache transforms into an unbearable tension, one that grows and intensifies with every second. It’s both pleasure and agony, and it’s so acute I’m vibrating with it, waves of heat rolling over my skin. I try to hold it off, to stop the tension from cresting, but it’s as impossible as holding back the tide.
With a choked gasp, I come, my whole body clenching in a release so intense my vision goes white behind my tightly closed eyelids. It goes on and on, the pleasure radiating out from my core in pulsing waves that leave me dazed and shaking, barely able to stand upright. I try to push my tormentor away, to end the terrifying pleasure, but he tightens his hold on me, and I have no choice but to ride it out, feeling every shameful ripple he forces from my body.
“That’s it, ptichka,” he breathes when I finally sag against him, panting and drained. “That was so beautiful.”
His hand leaves my sex, and I open my eyes, the post-orgasmic lethargy dissipating as the horror of what happened seeps in.
I came. I came at the hands of the man who ended my husband’s life.
He starts turning me around to face him, and I finally find the strength to act. With a pained moan, I twist out of his hold and stumble back, nearly crashing into the glass wall behind me. “Don’t!” My voice is high and thin, verging on hysterical. “Don’t touch me!”
To my surprise, Peter remains still, though I can see he’s still hard, still wanting me. Cocking his head to the side, he regards me silently for a few moments, then reaches over and turns off the shower.
“Come out,” he says gently, pushing open the door of the stall. “I think we’re clean enough.”
23
Peter
* * *
I dry myself off with a fluffy white towel; then I grab another one and wrap it around Sara as she steps out of the shower. She looks like she’s on the verge of shattering, her hazel eyes glittering with painful brightness, and despite the lust consuming me, I feel something close to pity.