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“May I use the bathroom to wash my hands?” Gloria asks, removing the gloves and discarding them in the trashcan.
Angelo indicates a door on the side. “Go ahead.”
Silence stretches between us as she disappears into the adjoining room. I immediately regret her absence. I haven’t realized what a buffer she’s been. Closing my legs, I try to sit up, but Angelo prevents me with a hand on my shoulder.
“We’re not done,” he says.
Alarm quickens my breathing. “What do you mean we’re not done? What else do you want to do? Wax my—” I bite off my words, not wanting to give him ideas.
Gloria steps out, cutting our unpleasant exchange short, and comes back to the bed. When she starts fitting a new pair of surgical gloves, I shoot upright.
Angelo stops her with a hand on her arm. “I’ve got it from here. You can go.”
Offering me a warm greeting, she packs up the rest of her equipment, minus the tubes of cream, and leaves.
“What are you doing?” I ask, leaning on my elbows as Angelo uncaps a tube.
“Stop fussing.” He squirts a blob on his finger. “It’s an antiseptic lotion to prevent infection.”
“I can do that.”
“Be still.”
I jerk when he rubs the lotion over the top of my pelvis, outlining his mark before tracing a line to the seam of my inner thigh.
“I’m already doing it,” he continues.
I relax only marginally. I don’t want him to touch me, especially not like this. It’s too intimate. Too caring. And he doesn’t care about me. The only thing that matters to him is the business deal our marriage sealed.
The light brush of his fingertips over the sensitive areas between my legs makes my stomach contract with a flutter. It’s an involuntary reaction, but it’s no less potent. His touch is like poison, a very sweet poison that’s both deadly and alluring. I can’t help but feel it where it matters, all the way to my core and deeper, right in the bruise that grows in my heart.
The most disturbing fact is that the reaction isn’t only physical. A part of me needs the meticulous gentleness he administers. I need it to compensate for the brutality of his intentions, yet I can’t allow myself to derive comfort from him. That would be a mistake. He’s a hardened murderer, a selfish criminal only interested in furthering his own agenda.
A voice in the back of my head says my silence made me an accomplice to murder, that we’re cut from the same cloth, but I don’t allow that thought to linger.
Steeling myself, I push his hand away. “That’s enough. You covered everything.”
He grins. “Not by a long shot. Turn over.”
My fake show of confidence slips. “What?”
He caps the tube and opens the second. Arnica. “Turn on your stomach.”
“I don’t need arnica.”
“Don’t tell me my belt hasn’t left welts.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“Come on, wisecrack. Don’t test me.” He lifts the towel from my breasts. “I’m not in the mood to repeat the lesson of earlier.”
Gritting my teeth, I do as he says while watching him from over my shoulder.
He warms the lotion in his palms before massaging it into my globes. He’s careful to keep his touch light.
When he’s done, he instructs me to stay while he washes his hands. Bending my elbows and resting my cheek on my forearm, I watch him through the open door of the bathroom as he dries his hands and folds back his sleeves. He flicks off the light before returning, only leaving the dim ceiling lights in the cabin on.
“Gloria was supposed to give you a massage,” he says, stopping at the side of the bed. “I decided it would be more fun to do it myself.”
