God of Wrath (Legacy of Gods #3) by Rina Kent

And the time before that.

I’m reduced to my primal instinct when this woman is around and I don’t like that.

Not one bit.

She’s waiting for me to speak, her expression sober, but there’s still the probability of her slipping into an unreachable state.

I crane my chin and point it behind her. “Use shower gel.”

A delicate frown appears between her brows, and I’m almost sure she’ll choose to be difficult just to piss me off, but she reaches behind her for a shower sponge and pours the gel all over it.

She lowers her head as she lathers her shoulders, armpits, and breasts.

“Eyes on me.” My voice roughens despite my attempts to remain unaffected.

And when those mystic eyes fixate on me? Fuck. I honestly wonder why I’m not in there taking over the task.

But then I recall that I need her to be conscious of her actions. If I do it for her, it’ll be easier to dissociate.

A blush covers her cheeks, neck, and even her ears as she hastily runs the sponge over her stomach and thighs.

Cecily might pretend that she’s not affected by me, might deny the palpable attraction between us and say that she wants nothing of what I’m offering, but her body doesn’t lie.

Her nipples have become harder since her eyes met mine, to the point that she winces whenever she touches them.

A soft shade of pink covers her pale flesh and she’s clenching her legs.

“Clean your pussy, too.”

Her throat works with a swallow. “Can I get some privacy?”

“No.”

A slow but steady fire lights up her expression. “I’m uncomfortable.”

“And I don’t give a fuck.”

The sound of her heavy breathing echoes in the air as she opens her thighs and scrubs her cunt not so gently.

Unease and anger mean she’s here and won’t be lured to whatever alternate reality her brain leads her to.

She finishes in record time, her movements jerky and fueled with her clear disdain.

I’m starting to learn that Cecily’s body language is able to express her feelings better than her words.

It’s not that she’s lacking in the verbal department. She’s intelligent, with a brain that can contain different interests and subjects without failing any. But she has an awful relationship with the sensory world.

She’s the type who trips over a rock due to being too caught up in her head.

As a result, when push comes to shove, she can’t find the right words to express what’s inside her. At least, when it comes to herself. She’s more eloquent when she has to turn on the mama bear mode and protect her friends—my sister included.

Cecily is selfless to an annoying degree and I’m contemplating a way to erase those habits.

Once she’s finished, she turns off the water and slips out of the shower. I push off the counter, my fingers aching from how hard I gripped the surface.

There should be a reward for the effort I spent to back off. Too bad my cock only accepts her pussy as compensation.

Cecily jerks to a halt the moment I move, her expression no different than an injured animal’s. A prisoner who hasn’t seen light in decades.

I grab a clean towel from the shelves and open it, holding it out, soundlessly telling her to walk toward me.

She does, her steps as light as a feather and as quiet as a kitten. Her body is physical perfection, all creamy, lithe, and small. Especially after I marked it with red bites and hickeys all over her neck, breasts, and thighs.

She’s custom-made for me.

Her silver hair drips all over the tile until she reaches me. And then she attempts to snatch the towel. “I can do it myself.”

I hold it out of reach. “Get in here.”

She glares up at me, lips pursing, but she probably figures out this isn’t a battle worth fighting, so she steps into the towel, so her back faces me.

I wrap it around her, wiping the water away, and accidentally—or not so accidentally—pause on her nipples, waist, pussy, and ass.

Cecily jerks with each brush of my hand against her skin. Due to her poor relationship with her sensory world, she’s sensitive to every external stimulus.

Just to fuck with her, I brush my thumb against her nipple when I finally tie the towel around her.

She grabs the cloth in a tight fist even as her ears grow red. I retrieve another towel and dump it on her hair, then take my time drying it.

Usually, her scent is that of delicate water lilies, but right now, she smells of me.

Not sure which one I like the best.

My fingers slide through her hair, giving every silver strand the same attention. Gliding, caressing, and curling against her skull, then down her nape and bare shoulders.

The longer I touch her, the redder her ears become, and she flinches every time I do something new.

“Why did you choose this color for your hair?”

“Why are you asking?” Her soft voice carries in the space and ends up beneath my skin.

“It’s an unusual color to dye one’s hair to. Commonly, people would try to hide gray hair, no?”

“I guess. Not me, though.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll think it’s stupid.”

“Try me.” And since when does she care about my opinion?

“White-haired characters are usually my favorites in mangas and anime. They have this intelligent, wise, and reserved aura that I always loved, so I went for it. Not going to lie, it’s a pain to maintain, but it’s worth it.”