| BOOK FIVE | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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I stood under the faucet, where the steady stream of hot water splashed on my face like shards of glass. In blissful relaxation, I squirted Ben's molten brown, pepper-scented shower gel onto Emma's pale green loofah, the layered textures lathered in suds, and scrubbed myself raw. Kneading my neck and shoulders, chest and back, I worked through the lengthy process until every inch of skin felt silky smooth to touch, unsoiled, unstained, unblemished, immaculate, faultless, flawless.
The continual reputation of cleansing was never too much. I used to believe compulsive showering was normal, basic hygiene practice, but I later learned excessive cleanliness is a cognitive tactic to manage anxieties. I washed three times a day, and that's on a good day. I washed more if the situation demanded it. Suppose I wake up in a bath of sweat, for example. It could be three o'clock in the morning, and I will strip the bed, ready for laundry service, and head straight to the en-suite to efface cold sweats and expunge unpleasant dreams.
Turning off the water, I drew the new shower curtain back, the colourful, flower-patterned border sending my brain into a bastard riot (she got bored of the leaves, I suppose). Foamy, tepid suds trickling down my legs, I stepped onto the diamond tufted bathmat, the anti-slip qualities soft underfoot.
Acclimatised to high atmospheric humidity, I watched droplets of condensation on the mirror above the sink and wiped the glass to reveal my reflection. I looked exhausted yet felt oddly energised.
Frowning deeply at the ambiguities of my thought process, I popped a toothbrush in my mouth, brushed my teeth, flossed, rinsed, repeated, knotted the towel around my waist and exited the bathroom.
Dawn illuminated the hallway, the sun's early morning rays whispering a golden path to Emma's bedroom door. With a swift towel dry, I crept into the room, unzipped the holdall, changed into a clean pair of boxer briefs and sat on the clothes-strewn chair.
Emma's bedroom is not unclean by any standard, but the overdone exhibition of textiles, tapestries, oversized furniture and storage boxes left me open-mouthed with profound discombobulation.
Her private space is aesthetically unappealing.
Less is more.
My girl needs to arrange belongings systematically, hurl unwanted garbage in the skip and find better storage solutions.
My brain cannot handle this level of craziness.
Even in the chair, I practically sat on top of the wardrobe because the room only boasted compactness. I leaned down to open one drawer and jostled open the second drawer to inventory her clothes, or lack thereof. Impecuniousness is prevalent here. Her portmanteau of attractiveness, kindness, uniqueness and stout-heartedness outweighed materialistic wealth.
Ruminating on her living conditions, I gave the room a final once-over and gazed upon the bed. Emma slept on the side, her back to me, the duvet kicked into a multilayered mountain on the floor, and breathing peacefully next to her, Dominic clad in animal print cotton.
