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He shifts behind my back and then produces a bar of soap. I force myself to lean back on his chest and bide my time. Even if I wanted to walk out, there’s no sign of my clothes. They’re probably still in tatters at his grave.
Heat rises to my cheeks as I focus on the large hands rubbing the soap, their movements hypnotic. They’re broad and powerful, yet capable of such exquisite pleasure. The citrus scent fills the air, mingling with the heady aroma of his skin, as the lather spills from his long, thick fingers. Those digits, so deft and skillful, had toyed with my pussy until I moaned, every touch infusing me with delicious shockwaves.
My core clenches at the memory, desire pooling low in mybelly. Oh, fuck. Why am I thinking of sex at a time like this? But it’s impossible not to when those hands are right in front of me, reminding me of the pleasure they can bring.
Even if Xero is telling the truth and we’re both alive, there’s still no way I can leave this abandoned old rectory without his help.
I swallow hard, my gaze glued to the way his fingers glide over the soap, imagining them slides over my skin, making me forget everything but the addictiveness of his touch.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Late,” he replies and smothers my shoulders with lather.
“Are you really going to bathe me like an invalid?” I ask.
“It’s called aftercare. And yes.”
“What’s the point when you’ve spent days terrorizing me until I thought I was going crazy? You know how I feel about my mental health.”
He runs the lather down my arms and over my hands, making sure to cover every exposed inch of my body with soap.
“Xero?” I snap.
“Imagine how it feels to open up to a woman, have her accept every part of you, including those you’ve never shared with a soul, only to discover the love and devotion was a sham for her to get rich?”
“Are you talking about me?” I ask.
“If the noose fits…”
“Haven’t you punished me enough?”
“I haven’t nearly begun.” He massages my shoulders with his strong fingers. “By the time I finish with you, you’ll regret ever having tempted me with honeyed words.”
“This doesn’t feel so bad,” I murmur.
He laughs. It’s a low, demonic chuckle that sounds like it’s coming straight from the pits of hell. I wonder if this is all a facade my mind fabricated to cover up the fact that we’re both sitting in a pit of lava.
It would make a sick sort of sense. Last night, there were men at the house. Two of them drilled through the front door and another pair charged at me when I tried to run out through the back.
When they pinned me to the kitchen table, my mind must have dissociated. If it can glitch when I’m trying to have consensual sex, then it had to do something powerful to help me get through being raped.
That’s when I pictured Xero. Not the Grim Reaper version of the man, but the platinum blond serial killer. Except I got my wires crossed, and imagined he was living in the cupboard under the stairs, which is ridiculous.
In my imagination, he cut down the rapists with the hangman’s ax and then I ran. Maybe that was the moment I died. Or something. Then my soul traveled to the cemetery, and a bunch of men I killed guided me to Xero’s grave.
“You can lift the glamor,” I say. “I know we’re finally together in hell.”
He lathers up my breasts. “Do you still think we’re dead?”
“We’re in a Roman bath, and it’s round. This is probably the middle circle where they keep betrayers like Brutus and Judas Iscariot.”
“Dante’s Inferno?” he asks, his voice light.
“Why not?
“Then who am I?”
“My guide.”
