Chapter 15

15

Turning the knob all the way to the left, the water gets hotter by the second and steam starts to billow up around me. I let out a sigh, my muscles instantly relaxing as I step under the spray of water and tilt my head back in the glass-encased shower stall. I really love the harsh sting of the water pelting my skin.

The crisp, clean aroma of eucalyptus and mint hangs heavy in the air as I lather my body with Bowie's expensive body wash. They cleaned my face up at the hospital, but my skin still crawls with the wraith of Allen's hands on me. I scrub harder, my skin an angry red by the time I finally feel washed of his sins.

I twist around to grab the shampoo bottle from the built-in black marble shelf when a hand comes to rest on my hip from behind. My body tenses for a split second, the echo of yesterday's attack still fraying my nerves.

"Jesus, Wren," Bowie chides, snatching his hand away. "You're going to burn your skin off."

Said skin pebbles and tingles from Bowie's scolding tone as his other hand slides past me to adjust the tap.

His palm splays across my stomach, tugging me back against him. Closing my eyes, I tip my head back, relaxing against his chest as his fingers skate lower.

"I happen to like the way it feels, thank you very much," I chirp.

"Hmm," he murmurs, hand cupping my pussy. "I happen to like the way you feel."

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to stifle a moan as his finger starts to strum my clit. But I can't help but gasp as he pushes a thick digit inside me.

He retracts his hand in an instant, a shadow of concern laces his tone as he asks, "Are you hurting?"

"No," I breathe, grabbing his wrist and directing his hand back to where I want it.

"Fuck," he growls, thrusting two fingers inside.

My grip tightens, nails digging into his flesh as I whimper, "Please."

"Please, what?" he urges, other hand squeezing my breast.

"Please, fuck me, Bowie," I implore.

"God, I love it when you beg."

Yesterday's attack hasn't dampened my desire for Bowie. If anything, hearing him stake a claim over me only made me crave him more. Pushing my ass back and swaying my hips, I grind against his hard cock, silently asking for more as he keeps pumping his fingers in and out of me.

"So fucking desperate, aren't you, Passerotta?" he says lowly, his warm breath skating across the shell of my ear.

"Only for you," I breathe as he quickens his pace.

My legs quiver beneath me, the coil in my belly winding tighter at the precipice of pleasure. My breath catches in my throat, my orgasm dying on his fingers as he withdraws his hand.

"Bowie," I groan. "What the-"

Twisting his fist in my hair, he roughly yanks my head back and my lips part on a gasp. There's a fraction of a second where I flinch, the muscle memory of the motion making my body want to react adversely, but when I see those hazel eyes peering down at me, every drop of apprehension bleeds away.

His throat bobs harshly with a swallow. "Hands on the wall, Bella."

I try to nod, my scalp prickling at the tug before he relinquishes his grip on my hair and I step forward, placing my palms against the cool tile.

"Spread those legs," he commands, tapping on the soft flesh of my inner thigh.

"Yes sir," I say, widening my stance.

"Good girl," he praises, sending a flurry of chills up my spine.

Years of seeking approval have apparently led to me developing a praise kink- and I'm not even mad about it.

Whoever said a woman couldn't have an insatiable sex drive was either a virgin or never had a proper dicking. I want him to fuck me like a whore and I know that if I surrender control, let him use me, control me, bend me to his will, he'll think he holds the power. The raw surge of testosterone that seeps through his pores as he claims my body like it's his to use for pleasure would send a feminist running for the hills. But I'm not submissive by nature, I'm submissive by choice.

THWACK!

I inhale sharply, my core clenching in twisted pleasure as his palm connects with the wet flesh of my ass cheek.

"What was that for?" I hiss out.

He rubs tender circles over the skin he just smacked, soothing the sting. "That was for scaring me yesterday."

My heart slams against my ribcage. I know Bowie was upset when he came to the hospital; I saw the concern etched into his features and felt it when he kissed me. But hearing him admit it sends a frisson of excitement through my body.

"I'm sorry?" I offer.

He steps closer, his body blanketing mine as his large hands palm my breasts and he nips at the soft skin of my neck. "I don't know how to do this," he admits quietly.

"Do what?" I ask breathlessly as he pinches my nipples.

"Let someone in."

Spinning around to face him, I watch as rivulets of water trail down his face, beading on his dark, thick lashes as I study his features. His face isn't a stoic mask like usual, but it doesn't show weakness either. It's relaxed, the emotions behind his words only showing in glimpses across his hazel orbs.

I cup his face, the coarse hairs of his neatly-trimmed beard pricking my palms. "What do you mean, Bowie?"

His ink covered chest rises as he draws in a deep breath, slowly letting it out as his eyes study mine. "My life, Wren. It's… complicated."

My lips tip into a smirk. "Isn't everyone's?"

"I suppose," he sighs. "But it's more than that. There's so much you don't know about me."

"So tell me," I urge, looping my arms around his neck as I hold his gaze. "I want to know everything about you, Bowie Sorrentino."

I try not to let the flicker of hurt I feel show on my face as he peels my arms off of him and reaches around me for the shampoo. It smells like the body wash, rich and clean as he squirts it into his palm and starts to massage it into my scalp.

It's such an intimate gesture and I relish in the feeling, letting my eyes slip closed, quickly forgetting about how he just rudely edged me.

"My family," he starts, his voice hesitant. "We're Italian-"

I snort. "I kinda guessed."

He starts to rinse my hair. "No, old school Italian."

"So what, you're Catholic?"

He chuckles as he works the conditioner in. "Well, yes, but-"

My eyes shoot open. "It's the baby, isn't it? Your family's going to freak because you knocked me up out of wedlock?"

"No, the baby is a good thing." He squeezes my arms reassuringly. "My family will be very happy."

"Okay, So what's the deal?" I raise a brow, wringing out my hair as he twists off the tap.

He doesn't answer. His lips press into a thin line as he turns and walks out, grabbing us each a towel.

"C'mon," I coax, rubbing the cotton towel across my legs before wrapping it around my body. "I don't scare away that easily."

The muscle in his jaw feathers as he peers at me with a look I can't quite decipher.

"No, you don't, do you, Bella?" he muses, stroking his chin.

His feet slap against the tile as he closes the gap between us, banding an arm around my waist and slamming his mouth onto mine. I moan against his lips, our tongues tangling as his hands cup my ass and lift me. My legs part, circling his naked torso as he turns and pins me against the door.

I lock my ankles behind his back, bracing my hands on his shoulders as he lines his hard cock up to my throbbing pussy and thrusts inside. His elbows bracket my head, hands resting on top to hold me in place as he hammers into me at a frenetic pace.

I've come to recognize the different ways Bowie fucks, and when his emotions become too much, he replaces his words with brutal thrusts. His body's so overwhelmed with feelings he doesn't know how to articulate that he tries to fuck it away. His body begs mine to understand, the shadows in his soul circling my own with silent screams.

Like a rollercoaster car that's gone off the rails, my stomach swoops, body spasming in his hold as I'm galvanized with toe-curling rapture. I go slack, melting in his hold as he finds his own release. His chest rises and falls rapidly, ragged breaths skating across my skin and licking chills down my spine.

"Cazzo, Bella," he whispers.

"Hmm", I hum, my body tingling with adrenaline as I slowly lift my head to meet his heated gaze.

He eases out of me, each barbell tugging against my sensitive center and sending aftershocks of pleasure through me. Twisting around, he sets me on the cool surface of the vanity and I try to hide the wince as he cups my still swollen face.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, thumbs stroking lightly across my bruised cheeks.

My throat vibrates with a small laugh. "Yes, but I liked it."

His hands splay against the counter, shoulders sagging, forehead resting against mine. "This is what I mean. I'm complicated. Dangerous. I can't promise you won't get hurt."

"I never asked you to, Bowie," I reassure him, threading my fingers into his damp locks. "Call me a masochist because I want this. Something with you just feels right."

Rocking back, his brows furrow together as he studies my face. "I want to tell you more, but… I'm not a good man, Wren. You should be scared of me."

"But I'm not. Connection isn't about finding someone to try and fix you, but finding someone who's not afraid of the pain that comes with picking up the pieces."

He heaves a sigh and presses his lips to mine. I deepen the kiss, our mouths sliding together in a tender temperament before he pulls back and starts to clean between my thighs.

Helping me down, I follow him into the bedroom and he pulls open a drawer of the dark walnut dresser, handing me a white t-shirt from a designer I've never heard of and a pair of black Calvin Klein silk boxers. I slip into the borrowed clothes as he disappears into the closet. Once I'm dressed, I sit on the edge of the bed, finger combing my hair as my eyes tour the room. It's sleek and modern with minimal decor- nothing jumps out to reveal any secrets about this man.

"I have to go to work," Bowie says, stepping into the room as he buttons his navy collared shirt.

I take a moment to admire his sharp features, swallowing back the disappointment of not getting to spend the day lazily with him. "But it's Sunday?" I scrunch my nose up, leaning back on my hands.

"It is," he affirms, fastening his gray slacks and weaving a brown leather belt through the loops. "But I have the club and family business to attend to."

"Wait, full stop," I say as little pieces of information start to slide together. It's almost so obvious that I feel like an idiot for not putting it together sooner. "You own the Monarch Club, don't you?"

"I do. The whole building, actually," he answers, buckling the Rolex around his wrist.

"What's the family business then?"

He sighs. "There's investments, real estate, entertainment, and private security, to name a few."

There's a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that says those answers aren't as simple as he makes them sound. I hum in response, watching as he sits on the tufted leather ottoman and pulls on his socks and shoes.

Standing to his full height, he walks toward the dresser, picking up his phone and studying it for a moment before his fingers tap on the screen.

"Come," he instructs in that gravelly tone that makes my pussy clench. "I have a surprise for you."

I push off the bed and pad towards him, his hand sliding to the small of my back as he ushers me down the hall to the open-concept living room.

"The doctor said you should take it easy today and rest." He leads me over to sit on a plush suede sofa, sitting opposite me on the glass coffee table. "But I didn't want you to be alone."

The front door pushes open and Dallas steps in, rolling what looks to be my suitcase behind him and carrying a black takeout bag like Bowie had last night in the other hand. I feel a pang of disappointment at the thought of being babysat all day when Drea steps in with Sonic cups in her hands. "Hey babe!" she greets cheerfully, strutting towards the sofa.

A smile splits across my face as I dart my eyes to Bowie and he smirks, pushing to his feet. "I had Drea bring you some essentials, and pick up some food and drinks she knew you'd enjoy." He motions to the giant screen behind him. "Watch some TV, order a movie, whatever it is you girls would do on a normal Sunday."

"Thank you." I barely get the words out before my lip starts to quiver and I try to blink away the tears I feel welling in my eyes. Damnit, it has to be the hormones fucking with me, right?

Bending at the waist, he curls his fingers beneath my chin, capturing my lips in a chaste kiss before murmuring, "Be a good girl while I'm out." He winks as he straightens and paces towards the door. "Call me if you need something, Passerotta."

Nodding, I shift in my seat, trying to relieve the growing ache his words have caused between my thighs as Drea plops down beside me on the couch.

I don't miss the look that Dallas shoots in Drea's direction or the way her cheeks darken with a blush as she unpacks the takeout. I take the cranberry limeade -my absolute favorite drink to treat myself with- from the carrier and punch a straw through the lid.

"So," I start as soon as the front door latches shut. "Wanna tell me what's going on there?" I ask, pinching the straw and taking a sip.

She rolls her eyes, popping a fried pickle in her mouth. "There's nothing to tell, really. When he picked me up, it was the first time we'd talked since he called about you being attacked."

I wince. "Sorry if I've inadvertently beaver-dammed you."

"Girl, stop," she admonishes. "Don't even go down that rabbit hole I know you are starting on. I like the guy, sure." She shrugs, reaching for the remote and turning on the TV. "But it's casual and I'm good with it. What I'm not good with is you blaming yourself for what happened."

It's almost scary how well she knows me. No matter how ridiculous it seems, the nagging thoughts of how I could've done something different, been more self-aware or just kept my damn mouth shut when Allen was getting fired, keep cropping up in my mind.

Leaning forward, I grab a mozzarella stick and dip it in the ranch before taking a bite. "I'll try not to."

She squeezes my knee. "If you need to talk, cry, break things, or eat an array of random appetizers paid for by your new rich boyfriend, you call me. No matter what, I'm always here for you."

I swipe away the tears with the back of my hand, hitching forward and throwing my arms around Drea's shoulders, squeezing her in a hug. "I don't deserve you."

"Sure you do," she coos as she rocks us side to side. "We're besties for the resties."

"Thank you," I whisper, giving her a final squeeze.

Rocking back, I curl my legs beneath me and take another drink of my limeade as she scrolls through the streaming options. Nothing really jumps out at us, so we settle on having the Harry Potter movies playing in the background. Drea brings the takeout box to sit between us and twists to face me. "So, how long are you staying here?"

I shrug. "We didn't really discuss that. I guess until they find Allen."

"Did you file a police report?"

"No, Bowie-" I pause. Bowie's commanding words to Dallas, his promise to drown the city in blood to find him, and the conversation in the shower, send my mind spinning like one of those carnival teacup rides.

"Bowie what?" Drea questions.

"He said he'd take care of it." The partial lie sits bitterly on my tongue. I don't usually keep anything from her, but until I have more to go off of, it sounds better than me spouting off that he's got his giant tattooed hands in some sort of criminal activity. There wasn't a motorcycle in the parking garage so the Sons of Anarchy fantasy can be crossed off the list. Enigma, my dangerous and sexy enigma.

The conversation dies off naturally, our attention shifting back to the TV as Hagrid busts in declaring "Yer a wizard, Harry!" and I can't help but share in Harry's turmoil.

My hand comes to rest on my stomach and I'm hit with the sudden realization that all the decisions I make from this point forward not only affect me, but this baby, too. How am I going to navigate that?

But just as anxiety creeps in, I think of Bowie, and it starts to wash away. As long as he's by my side, I know we can manage. We're in this together.