Page 203 of Breaking Rosalind
Cesare’s fingers travel up my waist, detonating every pleasure center until my skin feels like it’s been set alight. I don’t want to dwell too deeply on why my body feels so intensely for my former captor so soon after I was abducted by another.
There has to be more to our bond than some twisted psychological connection or a case of better the devil you know. When he scoops me up into his arms, my heart feels safe, protected. Cesare feels like home.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my arms wrapping around his neck.
“Taking you to the spa.”
My stomach drops. “We’re leaving the cabin?”
“If you’re worried about your thalassophobia, I’ve ordered the crew to pull down all the blinds to the windows.”
“I wouldn’t call it a phobia,” I mutter. “Just an awareness of its dangers.”
He carries me across the cabin and out of the door into a hallway of white floors and polished mahogany walls. “Did something happen?”
His question triggers a memory of a long-forgotten academy training exercise, and a shiver runs down my spine. “No.”
“Don’t want to talk about it, love?” he says, his voice soft.
“Maybe later,” I mumble and bury my face in his neck.
He doesn’t push for more information. Instead, he cradles me to his chest. “You don’t have to be so strong around me,” he murmurs. “I know you’ve been through hell, and I want to take care of you.”
His words are a balm on my frayed nerves. As unhinged as Cesare can be, he’s one of the few men I’ve met who want to look beyond the surface. A terrible trait from an interrogator, but wonderful as a boyfriend.
Boyfriend?
I shake off that thought. We’re more like enemies who have agreed to a truce. A little voice in my head asks about the fucking, but I focus on the rhythm of Cesare’s steps and the thud of his heartbeat against my ear. There’s no point in classifying an arrangement that’s only temporary.
We continue down a set of stairs, passing blacked out portholes, and I notice the boat isn’t rocking.
“Are we still out at sea?” I ask.
“We’re moored in St. Anne’s Marina,” he says. “Does that make a difference?”
“Don’t know,” I reply with a nervous chuckle.
At the bottom of the stairs, he opens a door, letting out the calming scent of cedar. He steps into the spa, a long space of wooden walls divided by a glass wall.
Cesare carries me down a walkway that separates a glass-fronted sauna and a narrow exercise pool that hums with its own current. At the very end of the spa, he lays me on a stone table beside a condensation-covered wall, which I can only guess leads to a steam room.
This is a hundred times more tasteful than the party yacht Matteo shared with his brother.
As he pulls off my t-shirt, I gaze up at him and smile. “What now?”
He flicks his head toward the ceiling, where a series of recessed shower heads glint in the dim light. “Now, we get you nice and clean.”
Before I can ask any more questions, he steps to a small corner console and flips a series of switches. Warm water sprays from the shower heads above, drenching every inch of my body.
A laugh bursts from my chest at the sudden downpour, which washes away an entire layer of tension. I turn to Cesare as he pulls off his boxers, exposing his long, thick erection.
My gaze bounces to the quartet of piercings studding its crown to the bottle he picks off a shelf.
“Magnolia bodywash, okay?”
A breath catches in the back of my throat. “Did Miranda tell you that’s my favorite flower?”
He shakes his head. “It’s your signature scent.”