He laughs. “I’ve never had a three-second wash.”
“Saves water,” I say quickly.
Still smiling, he shakes his head. “You’re an impatient woman.”
“For you, yes.”
“All right then.” He turns me around and pushes between my shoulder blades so I’m partially bent over.
I hear something rustle. Yes, a condom. I almost forgot.
He plants one hand on the wall over my shoulder and uses his other hand to position himself. I buck, feeling the crown of his thick shaft nudge my entrance.
I’m aching. I’m wet inside and out. I’m dying for this to happen.
But I wait. And I wait.
“Is something wrong?” I look over my shoulder to see Marus wincing. I stand straight. “What is it?”
He doesn’t reply, but I know. It’s his headache.
Oh no. Oh no. I was right. “It gets worse when you do something for yourself, doesn’t it?” The pain comes with anything he does out of selfish motives—like those flowers. They weren’t really for me. I mean, yeah, they were, but he gave them to me because he was acting on a selfish need. He wanted me. The realization is bittersweet.
Marus doesn’t reply to my question, but he doesn’t have to.
I shut off the water, go for a towel from the stack on the counter, and wrap one around his shoulders. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
I grab a towel for myself.
“Get dressed. I’ll call a car to take you home.”
“But I don’t want to leave you like thi—”
“But it’s what I want,” he growls.
I know that’s not true.
He takes his towel and wraps it around his waist. “Please, Ginnie.” His tone is sharp. He’s pushing me away, and I don’t want to make things worse.
“Sure. Okay. If you think I should leave.”
“I do.”
I feel so conflicted. I know he wants me to accept things the way they are, but I don’t want this. Not for him or for me.
I go to the kitchen to get my clothes from earlier, still sitting inside my big purse, and I dress.
When I turn around, he’s standing by the door, a hard look in his eyes. “You still want this. As is?”
Hell no. Screw that. I’m going to figure this out. I will find a solution.
I smile up at him and stand on my tiptoes to peck him on the lips. “Yep. As is,” I lie, because unlike him, I don’t believe in wishing and hoping for good things to happen.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“I have a delivery to make.”
“Then I’ll go with you. Get some rest.” I leave and text Olivia to tell her I’m staying at her apartment tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“So you’re telling me,” Vi says, wearing her white silk PJs and fuzzy slippers, a cup of peaches-and-cream tea in her hands, “that the guy died, came back to life, and now he’s Mr. Wish?”
“You’re oversimplifying it, but yes.”
“And he gets headaches when he does anything selfish?” She raises a blond brow.
I nod.
“You do know he sounds completely nuts, right?” She sets her tea on the steam-trunk coffee table in front of us. She uses it to store her collection of white throw blankets, which we’re both using at the moment.
“But he’s not nuts,” I say. “He’s incredibly smart and intuitive. He takes his charity work very seriously. And,” I let go of the breath I’ve been holding since I left his place, “it’s not like he runs around seeing little green men or pretending he owns a unicorn farm. He’s lucid and hardworking. He took a million dollars and turned it into hundreds of millions, just through trading stocks. He has a team of professionals who work for him and help acquire properties, cars, whatever people wish for.”
“Are you listening to yourself? He thinks he’s a genie.”
“Well, maybe he is.” After all, I still don’t know how he does his little bottle tricks. “And maybe the world needs genies.” It sure as hell doesn’t need more greedy assholes. “I mean, look at all the people running around swindling, stealing, fleecing their friends. And I’m not just talking about petty thieves. Con men, like Greg, are everywhere and on a much bigger scale. But do people call them crazy because greed drives their behavior? No. They just call them crooked bastards. So why is Marus crazy because he’s obsessed with anti-greed? He wants to help people, not steal from them or gamble away other people’s money. He doesn’t run around robbing banks or killing to fulfill his need for importance or material things. He gives money away. And then he makes more of it so he can give more away.”
“Okay. Fine. When you put it like that, I get your point, Gin. But if he’s incapable of having sex with you because he’s got a mental block about doing anything remotely nice for himself…” She shakes her head. “It’s not normal. The guy’s messed up.”