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Dante’s mouth is hot against my sex and I gasp when he dips his tongue into my entrance. I rock my hips forward, but slowly, so that I don’t stretch too far and hurt my ribs.
Dante clamps on to my hips to get his tongue deeper and then he sticks it out wide, letting me grind myself against his tongue. When I catch the right rhythm, I know that it isn’t going to take long.
“Dante,” I moan. “Dante, I’m so close.”
He takes in a deep breath through his nostrils and moves his tongue along me as I continue to roll my hips. It’s slow and agonizing because I can’t move too fast without my ribs aching, and my orgasm builds up slowly in my belly, making me feel like I’m being pulled up on a rollercoaster.
It takes only a few more rocks of my hips and rolls of Dante’s tongue before I’m coming, grabbing on to the headboard and crying out.
Dante laps at me hungrily even after I’m finished, and I’m overstimulated so I shudder as pleasure keeps rolling through my body. His hands finally loosen over my hips and I roll off him. He sucks in air, smiling at me, his face covered in my juices.
I blush, but then I see the blood trickling down his shoulder.
“Oh, no!” I cry out, running to the bathroom to get a bandage. When I return, Dante looks down at it and groans.
“Think I popped a stitch,” he says irritably.
“Shit!” I curse. “Let me call Jimmy,” I say, grabbing for my phone, but Dante takes hold of my wrist.
“You know how to sew, right?”
I stare at him. “Wh-what?” I stammer.
Dante shrugs. “You’re my wife now, Mia. You’re going to have to learn to do first aid.”
“This isn’t first aid!” I argue.
He laughs. “For people like us, it is.”
I guess he’s right. I’ve seen my mother patch up my father plenty of times, although I’ve never witnessed her putting a stitch in him.
“What do I do?” I ask.
“Just get a needle and thread,” Dante says easily, as if he’s not bleeding profusely. “It’s just the one stitch, so you’ll just have to pinch the skin together and push through.”
“Won’t that hurt you?” I ask.
Dante points at the bottle of painkillers Jimmy gave us which is sitting on the desk. “Just hand me a couple of those.”
I do as he asks and he dry swallows them. My hands are trembling as I go to the closet to get the needle and thread, thinking about when he’d first been hurt. I take a few deep breaths and it calms me slightly.
When I return, Dante’s sitting up with his back braced against the headboard, splashing the whiskey he keeps at his bedside on the wound and hissing.
I start to move toward him but Dante holds up a hand to stop me.
“You’ve got to sterilize the needle,” he commands. “Take that lighter you use for the candles, just heat it up for a second.”
I do as he says and my hands aren’t shaking anymore, thank God.
I pause when Dante winces as I stick the needle into his skin, holding the sides together, but after a minute, I get the hang of it and tie off the thread like my mother taught me when I was young and we were making pillows and little blankets.
Dante looks at my handiwork. “Good job, baby,” he praises, and I sigh in relief, plopping back down on the bed after putting away the needle and thread.
He’s turned over on his good shoulder, looking at me fondly. “You’re good at this,” he says.
“Good at what?”
He leans forward and brushes his nose against mine before kissing me chastely on the mouth. “Being my wife.”
