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Dante groans low in his throat, and even though it isn’t technically a sexual sound, it sends a shiver through me.
“You’re the best, pretty girl,” he murmurs.
“Don’t you forget it,” I say brightly, and Dante chuckles.
I continue to wash him, stroking my hand down his back, his chest, being careful to pat around his wound instead of wiping the cloth against it.
Dante hisses in a breath when I do so, but it doesn’t seem to hurt him too much and I have to get the blood off.
“Be still,” I scold, and he stops moving.
“Never thought a bullet through and through would hurt this fucking much,” he says through gritted teeth.
“As opposed to what?”
Dante taps his right thigh. I see that there’s a round, white scar there. I’ve noticed it before, but didn’t think much of it. All wiseguys have scars. My father has plenty that I’ve seen while we were in the pool. I grew up in the life, so nothing much surprises me, I guess.
“Jimmy Sawbones had to dig this one out and I thought for sure I was going to die,” he chuckles. “I was only nineteen, and it took my father and two of his men to hold me down.”
I bite my lip. I hate to hear about him being hurt, but at the same time, something about it titillates me. Dante’s led an exciting life while I’ve mostly been squirrelled away in my father’s mansion.
Dante quirks an eyebrow, smirking at me. “Does that turn you on, pretty girl? All my war stories?”
“A little,” I admit, and then I move my hand down between his legs, groping him. Dante moans, looking into my eyes.
“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” he rasps, and I sigh heavily.
We haven’t been able to make love because of my ribs, and I’m growing increasingly sexually frustrated.
“I’m still too sore,” I mourn, but I continue stroking him, looking down and watching the way he plumps in my hand. “But I can take care of you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Dante says, but he’s already gasping, thrusting forward into my hand. It feels good, to have him want me so much, have him desperate for me. I start thinking of ways maybe we could work it out, which positions might be less painful, but Dante’s arching his back, his knuckles turning white on the edges of the bathtub.
I lean forward to kiss him and he returns the kiss sloppily, hungrily, exploring my mouth with his tongue and groaning into my mouth when he spills all over the cloth and my hand.
“That was fast,” I giggle, and Dante groans and laughs at the same time.
“It’s been too long,” he defends himself, and then gives me a hot look.
I clear my throat and look away, trying to calm myself down. My skin feels hot all over and I want more, want him to touch me, but I can’t think of a way that won’t hurt.
“I’ll take it from here,” Dante tells me. “You get ready for bed. You look tired.”
I’m not so much tired as I am worked up, but I don’t tell Dante that. I head into the bedroom and change into a silk nightie that he bought me. I used to always sleep in the nude, but since Dante and I have had to be celibate, that didn’t seem fair to him, so he’d bought me the nightie at a local boutique. The silk feels cool and good against my skin, and I slide under the covers, my body temperature finally seeming to go down just a little.
Dante doesn’t bother with clothes, just drying off in the doorway of the bedroom and then crawling into bed with me. I pout at him.
“That’s not fair,” I whine.
Dante smirks. “Don’t worry, baby. Gonna take care of you, too. Want you to sit on my face.”
My eyes widen. “Dante, won’t that hurt your shoulder?”
That’s the reason he hasn’t gone down on me in a week is because of the positioning and that he might strain it.
“It’ll be fine. Besides, I don’t care. Want to taste you,” he mumbles, and who am I to say no to my husband when he’s lying naked in bed next to me?
I shift, sitting up on my knees on the bed and straddling his face, looking down into his eyes. Dante reaches up slowly and grabs on to my hips, lowering me down onto his tongue. The nightie covers his face so I huff and pull it off me, throwing it on the floor.
