Chapter 8

She had found her control again.

The bath continued.

The massages returned.

And yet—not once did she falter.

Not once did she let herself slip, no matter how much her body screamed for more.

She was a changed woman now.

And she would prove it.

Even when she knelt beside the bathtub, her hands gliding across his back, the heat of his skin making her fingers tingle—she did not react.

Even when her eyes lingered too long on his bare chest, the ridges of his abs shifting beneath the water, his strong thighs spread beneath her hands—she held herself firm.

She had learned how to look without acting.

To crave without reaching.

Even when his green eyes flickered to her, sharp and knowing.

Even when he leaned back in the tub, arms draped over the edges, his voice a quiet, amused hum.

"You're good at this."

She met his gaze, calm, unbothered, unaffected.

"I know."

She was a changed woman.

Even when her hands rubbed oil into his shoulders during their nightly massages, feeling the power beneath her fingertips.

Even when he let out those low, deep sighs, his muscles relaxing under her touch.

Even when her eyes drifted, unbidden, toward the part of him she had once accidentally ridden, the part that still reacted despite the fact that he shouldn't be able to feel it.

She never broke.

Not once.

She simply looked away, ignored it, and carried on with her work, like the professional she was.

A truly changed woman.

And she swore—nothing, nothing—could make her lose control again.

It happened suddenly.

One moment, she was helping him rinse off the last of the soap, the routine now muscle memory.

The next—his body spasmed.

Her heart stopped, panic flaring as she saw the way his muscles stiffened, his arms going rigid, then slack.

It had happened before.

He had told her once—his body sometimes did this, moments of disconnect, where he couldn't move, couldn't respond. But never had it happened here, like this, when they were both dripping wet in the bathroom, freshly washed, naked.

His breathing was controlled, but she could see the strain, the way his jaw tightened, the way his hands barely twitched at his sides.

She swallowed hard.

"Can you help me dry?" he asked, his voice calm, but there was something underneath it—something that sounded pained.

She didn't hesitate.

She grabbed a towel, her hands trembling as she gently wiped over his shoulders, his arms, his chest—everywhere but the place she refused to acknowledge.

Her breath was uneven.

She wasn't thinking about how her hands lingered, how the heat of his skin soaked into her palms.

She wasn't thinking about how this was the first time she had ever dried a fully naked man, how each touch sent something sharp and dangerous curling in her stomach.

She wasn't thinking about how unfairly built he was, how the years of training before the accident had left his body in perfect condition, how even paralysis hadn't stripped him of his sheer masculine power.

She definitely wasn't thinking about what lay below the towel.

But the universe hated her.

Because as she helped him onto his chair, as she leaned forward to steady him, his hard length pressed right against her stomach.

A lightning bolt of heat shot through her.

Her breath hitched, her entire body going rigid.

She didn't move.

Didn't react.

Didn't even breathe.

She couldn't.

Not when she could feel him, hot and heavy, through the damp towel, her mind screaming at the unavoidable truth.

This was too much.

This was cruelty.

The universe was against her.

And it got worse.

Because as she knelt before him to help slide on his boxers, she came face to face with the source of her suffering.

Massive.

The twin below were just as intimidating as the part above them.

Her fingers shook as she pulled the fabric up, her eyes refusing to obey her—sneaking, glancing, memorizing every detail before she forced herself to look away.

And then—

"I need to go to the doctor tomorrow."

His voice was rough, strained, like pain was creeping into his bones.

Her head snapped up. "What's wrong?"

He exhaled, slow, like he was debating telling her.

Then, after a pause—

"I've been feeling pain," he admitted. "It's—different this time. I don't know if it's normal."

A deep furrow settled between his brows, his green eyes dark with something she had never seen before.

And then, before she could process it, before she could react—

His next words shattered her completely.

"Can you shave me while we're there?"

Silence.

Her brain—her entire soul—glitched.

Touching you?

She didn't say it out loud, but the thought screamed through her head, ricocheting between every last working brain cell she had left.

But then—

She nodded.

Like a fool.

Like her brain wasn't functioning at all.

Like she hadn't just agreed to touch the one thing that had been tormenting her for months.

And as she stepped back, barely remembering how to breathe, he watched her.

Calm.

Quiet.

Expression unreadable.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

She wasn't thinking.

She wasn't questioning.

She wasn't doing anything except staring—wide-eyed, frozen, completely consumed by the sight before her.

The coarse hair that needed shaving.

The thing standing at attention, thick and veined, twitching ever so slightly under her gaze.

Her brain had gone blank, lost in some dark, lust-fueled fog where reason no longer existed.

She should have paused. She should have questioned.

Why was he hard?

Why wasn't he saying anything?

But she didn't ask.

Didn't think.

Didn't do anything except let her trembling hands move closer, razor poised, mind too clouded to comprehend reality.

She swallowed, her throat tight, dry, and pressed the blade to his skin.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Shaving him.

Her fingers brushed against the heat of his groin as she worked, moving in smooth, calculated strokes, dragging the blade along the coarse hair, trimming it down with painful precision.

And then—

Her fingers touched his shaft.

It was barely a graze, but it sent fire through her body.

A sharp inhale ripped from her throat, and her hands shook.

She had to move it.

Had to shift it to the side so she could finish.

Her fingers curled around him, the weight of him settling in her palm, her grip too light but too much all at once.

Still, she didn't hear anything.

Didn't hear him breathe.

Didn't hear him react.

Nothing but the pounding of her own heart.

She was too focused.

Her entire world shrank to the small, delicate movements of the razor, to the way her hands trembled against his skin, to the way her pulse screamed in her ears.

When she finished, she exhaled shakily, ready to escape.

But then—she felt them.

His balls.

Heavy. Smooth. Warm.

They needed shaving too.

Her lips parted, her fingers ghosting over them, cupping them just slightly as she worked, her mind a vacant void of lust-driven madness.

She had never felt anything like this.

Never touched anything like this.

It was like shaving the devil himself.

And then, in the final, damning moment, she whispered, "Oh, I missed some."

Like a woman possessed, she reached up—

Her trembling fingers wrapped around his length again—

And she pumped it.

Once.

Twice.

A brief, horrifying stroke, as if checking for invisible hair—as if she had completely lost her damn mind.

Then—realization hit.

She snapped back to reality, her breath catching, her entire body seized with horror.

What had she just done?

Without a second thought, without even looking at him, she bolted.

Straight out the door.

Her heart racing, her entire body burning, her soul already halfway to hell.

And as she disappeared, too ashamed to ever face him again—

He sat there.

Silent.

Still.

Breathing.

Watching the door she had just fled through.

And then, in the quietest voice, he whispered—

"…Huh."

She could not look at him.

Not after that.

Not after she had shaved him, touched him, and—dear God, what was she thinking?—stroked him.

For the past few days, she had moved through the penthouse like a ghost, doing her work in silence, avoiding his gaze like it might burn her alive.

She kept her distance, barely speaking unless necessary, and when she had to interact, she kept it short, professional, robotic.

No more bath assistance.

No more massages.

Just the bare minimum.

She would bring his meals, check his medications, clean the place, and disappear.

She never lingered.

Never let herself stand too close.

Never let herself remember the weight of him in her palm, the heat of his skin, the way her fingers had moved over him like a woman possessed.

She was a changed woman again.

And she would not break this time.

But she could feel it.

His gaze.

Watching her.

Not confronting. Not teasing.

Just waiting.

Like he knew.

Like he was letting her drown in her own shame.

And somehow, that was worse than anything he could have said.

She was losing.

Every day, every second spent in his presence, she could feel it—her body betraying her, her mind slipping, her restraint crumbling.

Even now, as she stood beside him, just existing near him, her hands trembled, her thighs clenched, heat curling low in her belly with nothing but the weight of his gaze on her.

She was starving for something she shouldn't want.

She needed to leave. Now.

But before she could move—

Before she could breathe—

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward.

A sharp gasp left her lips as she tumbled into him, the world spinning for half a second—

And then—

She was in his lap.

Sitting. On. Him.

Her breath stopped, her entire body going rigid as she felt it.

Him.

Hard. Thick. Pressed right against her.

Her skirt had flipped up in the motion, the thin material of her underwear doing nothing to shield her from the heat of him, from the unavoidable truth of his arousal.

She panicked, tried to pull back, but—

He held her still.

"I thought you were gonna pass out," he murmured, voice low, velvety, too amused. "Why are you shaking?"

She made a sound, something close to a whimper, her brain scrambling for an excuse—any excuse—

But all she could think about was how firmly pressed she was against him.

How her clit throbbed violently just from being seated like this.

How this was too much. Too close. Too dangerous.

"I—I just—" she stammered, her words turning into nonsense.

She tried to get up, hands pressing against his chest, desperate to escape.

But then—

He held her tighter.

Pressed her down.

His voice lowered, smooth, commanding—

"Stay."

And the way it hit her—

The way he hit her—

Sent pure electricity ripping through her, right between her legs.

A strangled, shocked moan tore from her throat, her back arching involuntarily, her body betraying her completely.

Her nails dug into his shirt, her hips trembling, throbbing, pulsing against him as pleasure rocked through her like a tidal wave.

And as her world shattered, her face burning, her body shaking—

She realized.

She was no longer a changed woman.

Her breath came fast, uneven, her body still rocked from the sudden, earth-shattering pleasure that had just torn through her.

She could barely think, barely breathe—

And then she felt it.

His hands.

Cupping her.

Holding her in place.

Her head whipped down, her eyes wide, disbelieving, heart slamming against her ribs as she took in the sight.

His hand. Under her skirt.

Firm. Unwavering. Spreading warmth through her skin.

Touching her in a way that was no accident.

She froze, her entire body going tight, rigid—

But she couldn't move.

Couldn't even process what was happening.

Her thighs quivered, still pressed against him, the heat of his arousal pulsing against her, the barrier between them thin, useless.

This was too much.

This was too far.

But she didn't stop him.

Didn't push him away.

Didn't say a single word.

Because she was too busy drowning in the feeling of his palm claiming her completely.