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Dante nods curtly, then turns to walk back home. A glint of something catches my eye, causing a gasp to escape my lungs.
“What happened to the glass? It’s all broken.”
My question is met with silence.
“Dante?”
“I thought you were dead.” He grits, his jaw tight.
I’m confused.
Dante sighs as we walk inside the house, our wet bodies stuck to each other. “It was the fastest way I could get to you.”
I nearly choke on the squeak that’s trying to tear out of my chest. My heart is hammering as a swarm of butterflies takes off in my tummy. He broke through the window to get to me. He’s hurt because he was worried about me. Heat prickles behind my eyes. No one has ever cared for me. No one would have cared if I was dead. But he does. Enough to injure himself.
I lean my head against his shoulder and inhale his intoxicating scent. Despite diving underwater to get me, he still smells exactly like the cologne I’ve been spritzing on myself and all over his room at night. On him, though, it smells a million times better.
“Thank you,” I murmur. My lips against his throat. He shivers as he takes me up the stairs, not letting go until we’re in his bathroom. Slowly, he puts me on the ground, sliding me down his body inch by inch. Instantly, I miss the feeling of being wrapped in him. His warmth.
His back is to the mirror as he stands in front of me, his fists clenching and unclenching, his gaze focused on the pool of water gathering at our feet.
Without thinking, I reach behind him, opening the cabinet and taking out tweezers and alcohol wipes before reaching out and lifting his chin to face me.
“Let me take care of you,” I whisper.
His eyelids flutter closed again, but he nods slightly. I smile a small smile and turn to grab a towel to wrap around myself, but just as my fingers reach the soft cotton, his hand wraps around my wrist, pulling it back.
“No,” he says firmly. “Like this.”
I blush, hesitating. While my body was right against his, I forgot I was even naked. Now, though, with the first-row seat to the ‘Get an eyeful of Alessa’s boobs and ass’ show, things seem a bit more exposed. But when I look at him, he’s not ogling my body, probably sensing my unease. He’s looking at my face, studying it. I bite my lip before taking a step back to him, resolute about what to do next.
Two can play this game.
Not breaking contact from his eyes, I step to him, then lift his wet t-shirt up his torso and over his head, losing his gaze just for a second before we’re staring at each other once again. Then I move down, kneeling on the floor as I take hissweatpants off. He’s not wearing socks, and he must have kicked off his shoes before he jumped through the window because the pool of water beside us is mixed with red. Once Dante is naked, I stand up again and break eye contact, reaching for the tweezers and sterilising them before looking back at his face. There are small pieces of glass lodged in his wounds, and I get to work, gently taking them out and dropping them into his empty water glass. Each time there’s a clink of glass against glass, Dante blinks. That’s the only emotion coming from him, apart from his undivided focus on my face. I move from his face to his shoulders and arms. Still, he doesn’t wince or sharply intakes a breath despite the larger glass shards.
When I get to his feet, I’m the one sucking in the air. Several of his cuts are bleeding, the red liquid flowing freely.
“This might hurt,” I say as I lift his foot to look at his sole and finding a piece of glass stuck in there. “Please don’t kick my face. I happen to like how it looks.”
A small smile greets me back. “I won’t. I happen to like how it looks, too,” he hesitates. “I’m going to close my eyes, Alessa.”
“Okaaay.”
I pull the piece of glass out and check his other foot.
“I—” he starts, then stops. His tattooed knuckles grip the countertop, and I briefly wonder if it’s because my face is currently at dick level or because I’m hurting him. As soon as my mind utters the word ‘dick’, my eyes glance at the appendage I have been avoiding looking at with all my powers, and Jesus Christ, I nearly scatter back. Because I’m face to face with a one-eyed monster. At half mast, his penis is thick and long, with small veins running up and down the sides. He’s uncut, and the head is peeping out from behind his foreskin. I have the biggest urge to touch it. See if it’s as smooth as it looks. Like velvet. “I don’t like blood.”
I nearly squeak and jump on the floor as Dante brings me back to the ground and away from his beautiful dick. My eyebrows scrunch, trying to process what he’s saying. “You—you don’t like bl—but you’re mafia…”
“So?”
“I mean, you have a gun. You seem like you know how to use it. Isn’t blood like a daily thing for you?”
“There are many creative ways to kill a person.” I can hear the smile in his voice as my heart picks up. “Many of them don’t involve blood.”
I bite my lip, adding another piece to the puzzle that is Dante Santoro, and trying to pretend he didn’t just allude to killing people on the daily, albeit creatively. It’s curious, though—the head of the mafia disliking blood.
“Is it just your own, or others too?” The question slips past my lips before I can stop it. I put his foot down and get back up, making sure his one-eyed monster is not within poking distance, just in case my libido decides I should let it poke one of my holes. Vagina. I mean the vagina.
