She kisses me.
This is different.
Every other time, there’s been urgency. Desperation. The frantic drive to consume before the moment slipped away. We’ve taken each other on my desk, against bookshelves, in dark hours when neither of us could sleep.
This isn’t that.
This is slow.
She explores my chest. I roll my sleeves to the elbow. Don’t even realize I’m doing it until the fabric bunches at my forearms.
She watches. Her mouth parts.
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Roll your sleeves. Right before.” Her voice is soft. “Seven. Now eight.”
The air leaves my lungs like she’s reached in and pulled it out.
She’s been counting. Tracking me. Reading my skin the way she reads ledgers. Finding patterns no one else bothers to look for.
She traces the ink on my forearm. Pauses at the scar near my wrist.
“You got this before the others.” Quiet. Certain. “The ink around it is lighter.”
I bring her palm to my face. Kiss it.
Cazzo.This woman.
I kiss her again. Slower this time. Memorizing her.
“I’m going to undress you now.” I pull back to watch her face. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
“Don’t stop.”
I work each button. Slow. Deliberate. Each inch of fabric I push aside reveals more of her, and I follow with my tongue.
“So fucking beautiful.” I press the words into her collarbone. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me.”
“You make me forget I’m supposed to be dangerous.” I kiss her shoulder. The hollow where her pulse beats wild. “You make me crave things I swore I’d never crave again.”
“What things?”
I lift my head. Meet her eyes.
“You. Every day. For the rest of my life.”
She goes still. “Dante.”
“I’m not finished.” I trace her jaw with my thumb, tilting her face up. “I’m going to wake up with you. Fight with you about the books. Watch you count your way through every problem I throw at you.” The words stick. “See me. And don’t run.”
“I’m not running.” She pulls me down. “I’m right here.”
She kisses me. Desperate now. Yanking at my shirt until I help her strip it off.
