Page 12 of Protecting Olivia

“I’m ready.” Olivia’s words broke the silence.

I’m glad she was ready; however, I didn’t think I was. Before I could change my mind, I picked her up and carried her into the shower. Warm water pounded on my back shielding her from the full force of it. I tried to avert my eyes and not look directly down. As hard as I tried not to, I still caught a glimpse of her perfect full breasts and pebbled nipples. I told myself it didn’t count because it was just a hint of view out of my peripheral vision. I had to set her down before my cock went to full staff. Just because my brain understood what this was didn’t mean he did.

I set her down and steadied her on her feet. “Lean back,” I instructed.

She did, and her panty-covered ass brushed against my cock. This was not going to go well. I had to hold her while she washed her hair. There was no good way to do this. Either her ass was pressed against my hard-on, or I was in front of her and her tits would be pushed against my chest. Thank God my boxers and tee were still on.

Screw it. There was no easy way to do this with the shower being so small. I pulled her the rest of the way to me, her back now firmly pressed against my chest. “Try to keep your bad hand out of the way, it will sting like hell if the soap hits the open sores.”

I grabbed the shampoo off the shelf and poured some onto the top of her head. What the hell did I know about washing a woman’s hair? There was probably some special procedure, but damn if I knew. I had never taken the time to shower with a woman, nor had I ever paid attention when a date showered before she left my apartment. I massaged the gel into her scalp and down through the strands, making sure I concentrated on the areas where the vomit was caked on.

“That’s nice.” Olivia sighed.

She was going to kill me if she sighed like that again. It was taking all of my self-control not to allow myself even the slightest glance of the sudsy water rushing over her bare skin. With her head bent to the side and my height, I would have a perfect view of her…

Nope! Not going there. I had one job to do, and it didn’t include fantasizing about what those tits would look like, or feel like. It especially didn’t involve me wondering what they would taste like and if she would squirm when I tied her to my bed and had her under my control.

I shook my head trying to dislodge the mental images my overactive mind was conjuring up. It had been a long time since I had a woman in my bed. That’s all this was. It wasn’t Olivia I was attracted to, it was merely good old-fashioned sex deprivation.

Once the suds were gone, I repeated the process with the conditioner. The faster this was done, the sooner I could get her dressed and get back to HQ. There was still a full days’ worth of after action reports to file and a debriefing with the President.

“Hair’s done. Give me your hand, and I’ll give you the soap to wash up.”

She removed her good hand from the wall and replaced it with the one with angry red welts and open sores.

“Ouch,” she yelped. “I can’t balance myself with my bad hand. It’s okay, my hair was enough.”

Fuck me. Fuck my life. I was a dumb fuck.

“Balance yourself with your good hand.” I prayed to all things holy there was a washcloth in the shower.

I knew there wasn’t, but I still prayed that maybe one would magically appear.

No such luck.

I reached my arms around her to her front and lathered my hands up, I placed the bar back on the ledge and went to work.

I avoided any part of her that would further make my cock stiff, if that was even possible. Her skin was smooth, and goosebumps rose every place I touched her. That was not helping my situation. I closed my eyes and mentally recited a cadence call.

My hands were moving as quickly as they could go and still get her clean. When I stopped to re-soap my hands, I felt her body shaking.

“What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?” I asked.

“No.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” What a dumb question. Of course the girl was uncomfortable. She was in the shower with a stranger who was touching her body after she went through such a harrowing ordeal. “What I mean is, am I touching you somewhere that’s making this harder for you?”

“No.”

Jesus. Now we’re playing twenty questions.

“Listen, tesorino, I’ll be honest – I’m not real good at the guessing game. I come from an Italian family. When there’s something bothering someone, they blurt it out nice and loud so everyone can understand.”

“I’m embarrassed you have to wash me. I feel like the victim you said I was.”

Did I call her a victim? “I’m an asshole. I shouldn’t’ve said that. I didn’t mean to call you a victim. It was a poorly worded statement.”

“Poorly worded or not, it’s the truth,” she cried.