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CHAPTER III
Sirenna
To say that I’m sore when I wake up would be a vile understatement. It feels like I’ve been hit and then fucked by a truck. Or a tank. I groan as I roll to my side, away from the morning light that abuses my eyes through the open curtains. Zayne must have pulled them open when he left this morning. My arms are shaking as I push myself up, trying to crawl out of bed. Tangled in a silky sheet, I head towards the bathroom.
I stop in my tracks, catching myself against the doorway between my room and the small hallway that leads to the bathroom. The water is running. Someone’s here. My brain refuses to grasp that it might be Zayne, who decided to stay. I don’t remember him stopping fucking me last night, and, judging by the amount of cum that now leaks down my inner thighs, he didn’t stop after the second time. But him staying after the party?
I glance back at the bed, the crumpled sheets, the duvet spilling halfway to the floor. The possibility of Zayne Thorngren having shared the bed with me last night takes shape in my mind, but I can’t allow it to gain any consistency before I see it with my own eyes.
So I walk into the bathroom.
And the first thing I learn about the man who fucked me stupid last night is that he likes to take cold showers in the morning. I watch the rivulets snaking down his body through the glass like rain on an ancient sculpture.
I approach slowly, inspecting the scars on his back. They’re even more vicious than the ones on his chest. When he reaches up to run his hands through his hair as the water sprays down on him, I see the circles around his forearms, just above his wrists, scars that could have only been left by chains or rope. My throat works. There are only two ways shackles can leave these kinds of traces. One is keeping someone bound for weeks or even months on end. The second is chaining them when they are very young, their flesh extremely pliable.
Zayne turns around, and when those blue eyes make contact with mine, I realize just how close I’ve been standing. Turning off the water, he steps out of the shower, invading my space and making me stumble back. He doesn’t speak, but he still makes me shiver like a leaf under his scrutiny. There was always a shade of intrigue in his eyes whenever he looked at me, it’s been there from the moment we met, but this is new. He stares down at me like he can’t quite figure me out.
My hands move awkwardly as I gather the silk sheet around me, trying to put up some kind of barrier between us. I wince as I’m doing it because everything in my body fucking hurts. Zayne’s eyes drag down my frame, noticing how I’m shaking, my knees bent inward as I clench my thighs to keep in what leaks from my pussy. I’m a complete mess.
“You stayed,” I whisper.
“I couldn’t leave you alone with those sharks out there,” he says as he walks by me, wet and completely naked. “And I don’t mean the mobsters. Those guys already know not to mess with you if they want to keep their heads on their shoulders.”
“Then who do you mean?”
“All the men who want you desperately after last night’s show.”
I watch him turn on the bathtub. It takes a few moments for me to realize that he’s running me a bath, steam rising from the water. Extra hot, just the way I like it.
“Shall I, uhm–” I chew on the inside of my cheek, wrapping my hands tighter around my body. “Shall I call for breakfast then?” I hate feeling so vulnerable in front of Zayne, but apparently, I can’t help it. I’ve never felt so silly in front of anyone.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says.
He walks over to me and starts peeling the silk from around my body while I eye the filling bathtub, wondering whether I’ll even be able to get myself into it. Raising my legs will hurt, and I doubt my arms can sustain my weight once I grab the edges to lower myself into the hot water. But when Zayne’s large palms swallow my shoulders and start to knead, my thoughts dissipate like smoke. I lean my head back, my lips parting.
“Oh, God,” I breathe. His touch feels divine.
His thumbs move in slow circles up the nape of my neck, applying the perfect amount of pressure to disentangle my tense muscles. It feels so good, even on my dry skin. I’m putty in his hands by the time he presses a palm to my forehead to keep me steady while using the other to massage the muscles flanking my spine from my neck to my loins, then down to my ass, then back again.
I must have forgotten all about time and place because the moment I open my eyes, the bathtub is filled, pale-blue foam spreading over the surface. Before I can even think of a solution to get in, Zayne scoops me up and lowers me gently into the water.
I moan at the perfect temperature that envelops me like a cocoon.
“God, this is perfect,” I manage hoarsely.
“You call Him a lot. I didn’t know you were a religious woman.”
“Believe it or not, I used to be,” I offer.
“And now?” It’s a soft question that invites me to spill the truth.
“Let’s say that now I believe in God, but not within the structure people built around the concept of Him.” I angle my head, giving in to the delicious warmth.
He lingers by the edge of the tub, his fingers dipped into the foam while inspecting my face. His scrutiny makes me squeamish, but thanks to the relaxation his massage provided and now the hot water, I can hold his gaze.
There’s a question in his eyes that I’m not sure I can answer. After a few long moments, his staring becomes eerie, so I clear my throat, shifting under the foam.
