Seeing her flushed cheeks, I understood.
It wasn't sleep she needed — her body was telling a different story entirely. Her skin burned like embered coal, and her breath trembled warmly in the air between us.
I watched her eyes, glassy and unfocused, blinking at me as though I were both the question and the answer. Her small face was red, deeply, vividly red, like ripe cherries.
I leaned in, slow and deliberate, my lips brushing the edge of her ear.
"Is that what you want?" I asked, voice low and steady. My hand traced a slow circle along her spine, each pass making her arch ever so slightly beneath my touch.
She flinched—not from fear, but from anticipation—tilting her head away from my breath like a spoiled noble girl unused to being ignored, or handled.
Her eyes turned to me, wide and searching, waiting for something more.
I let the silence linger, then finished my question in the same calm tone:
"A cold bath. Is that what you meant?"
She nodded.
"Please," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, barely audible—but the word clung to my skin like heat.
A small smile curved at the corner of my lips as I brushed my fingers against hers. She trembled at the contact, whether from fever or something else.
"I like that tone," I murmured. My hand, no longer teasing, moved from her spine to her waist. It was small, but not bony instead it was soft and melting with the feverish heat rising from her skin.
I lifted her easily, her silky black hair spilling over my face as I sat her gently on the sofa and stood.
Looking back at her dazed figure, I watched with impassive eyes.
"Let's go," I said, pointing to the grey door at the far end of the room.
She glanced at it, barely registering the scene, then turned her gaze to me again.
And like a stubborn fool, she tried to stand—or at least, that was her intention. But her legs gave out, and she stumbled forward into my chest.
I didn't overreact, simply raised a hand to support her weight, holding her steady as she sagged against me.
"You really want me to do this?" I asked, gently lifting her chin so she'd look up. She leaned against my chest, her petite face flushed crimson, her eyes glistening with tears. She said nothing—or perhaps couldn't.
Her face was uncannily similar to his. To Leo. Or maybe it was more accurate to say his face was the same as hers.
Either way, seeing her like this made me think of everything I'd imagined doing to the boy. And there was no one here to stop me.
I wasn't bound by some flimsy conscience. Not that I ever claimed to have one.
But I wanted to enjoy this a bit more.
"I liked your tone earlier," I said as my thumb stroked her warm, soft cheek.
She looked confused.
"Say the magic words, princess."
"Please," she whispered again—still lucid, just enough.
I smiled as I bent down, one arm slipping beneath her knees, the other behind her back. I lifted her.
She squealed at the sudden movement as I carried her toward the washroom.
But instead of going to the tub, I stepped into the shower cubicle. Without warning, I turned the tap to cold.
The icy stream hit me first, then flowed down over her in my arms. She flinched violently, letting out a startled squeal, almost jumping from my grip—but I held her steady, then gently lowered her to her feet.
She didn't stay standing long. She immediately dropped to her knees, folded forward with her head buried between them, the cold water soaking her hair, her clothes, her entire body. The dark silk of her hair veiled her completely in that posture.
I stepped back, saying nothing.
Her thin white shirt clung to her now like wet tissue paper, nearly translucent, revealing the delicate curve of her arched back and the pale bra beneath. The fabric wrapped tightly under her arms, outlining the soft swell of her side breast as she hugged her legs.
She seemed utterly unaware of how exposed she was. Of her own nudity.
And I let the moment stretch.
Then I moved forward and placed a hand on her soaked shoulder.
She didn't respond at first. Then slowly, she lifted her head and looked at me.
Somehow, she looked even more delirious now—her skin red and glowing, her eyes glazed with heat. Whatever they had fed her was clearly not leaving her system anytime soon.
Without warning, she let herself fall backward.
I didn't stop her. She wasn't far from the ground, and I was curious what tactic her fevered, overstimulated mind might attempt.
As her back hit the cold tiles with a soft thud, a clear, unrestrained moan slipped from her lips. Her hair stuck to her shirt, to her face, spread out across the wet floor.
The soaked fabric left almost nothing to the imagination. Her bra clung visibly to her perky breasts, while her soft stomach and small belly button were nearly bare.
She shifted, lying flat and spreading her legs. Her posture was like a starfish—but what caught my attention was the direct stream of water from the shower, focused and powerful, hitting just below her navel, just above the hem of her skirt.
That explained her expression: the feverish flush, the writhing arms.
She wanted release. Desperately.
I didn't interrupt as her trembling hands rose to her chest. Frustrated, she clawed at the buttons of her shirt, popping them open, and slid a hand beneath the drenched fabric. Her palm cupped her bra-covered breast, and a broken moan spilled from her lips. She opened her legs further—the skirt now ridden high on her hips, offering a clear view of the white panties beneath, soaked where the stream of water landed.
She writhed and thrashed, her breathing ragged and heavy. Her eyes unfocused, ears flushed red as she tried to angle her hips for better pressure.
Just as her mouth opened, breath hitching and her back began to arch—
I stepped forward, blocking the stream.
Her entire body froze, her mind short-circuiting at the edge of climax.
She blinked up at me like a wounded animal, a startled rabbit frozen in headlights, her hand still tucked inside her shirt.
"I never gave you permission to enjoy my water," I said with a smile, walking forward.
I stood between her legs, looking down at her sprawled, trembling form—still clothed, yet so much more erotic than simple nakedness.
"And you didn't ask first," I added, amused.