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As long as I don’t let myself continue to become more than that. As long as I can resist the urge to let him get me back into bed, the next time he tempts me.
The shower curtain brushes back, and I let out a startled yelp as Dante steps in, still naked and entirely too gorgeous for his own good.
“What are you doing!” I jump back, almost slipping, and his hand goes to my waist to steady me. Heat floods me at his touch, and I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the riot of sensations that this man is capable of causing just by brushing his fingers over my skin.
“Joining you in the shower,” Dante says calmly. “You caused me to make a bit of a mess.” He laughs, a low, seductive sound, gesturing at his abs. I look down despite myself, and flush, seeing the sticky mess where he came. Heat pulses through me again, remembering how it felt tomakehim come, to feel him throb in my hand, and then—
“So you just came in here without an invitation? You couldn’t wait for me to be finished?”
Dante looks at me, a thin line creasing between his brows. “Did I do something wrong, Emma?” He lets out a breath. “Not that it’s unusual for you to be upset with me, but this morning—”
“No. Nothing. I just—” I clench my teeth, knowing there’s no possible way for me to explain it that won’t make everything worse. If I tell him how he makes me feel, if I describe the riot of emotion that he causes in me, I don’t believe for a moment that he’ll see it as a bad thing. Worst case, he’ll use it as a way to get further under my skin, making it even harder for me to resist him.
I don’t want him to know how he makes me feel.
“I just wanted a little privacy, that’s all. I’ll let you shower. I should make us something to eat.” I duck out of the shower before he can protest, drying off quickly and wrapping my robe around myself.
I’d wanted to avoid him coming here. I hadn’t wanted to see him in my condo. I’m reminded of the reason why fifteen minutes later, when he emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist, shirtless with his hair slicked wetly against his scalp. Even half-undressed, he looks as out of place here as I had imagined he would. Everything looks shabbier around him. Just his presence alone is enough to make it clear that he doesn’t belong in my world, any more than I belong in his.
He sinks down into one of the chairs at my kitchen table. I’ve never noticed before how scratched and worn it is—a table that’s been in this condo since before I was born. My father wasn’t the type to replace anything unless it was broken, and he instilled that in me, too. If it’s still functional, there’s no need to get something new.
“What’s for breakfast?” There’s no hint of judgment in Dante’s voice, no sense that he’s looking around my home and cataloging all the ways that it doesn’t measure up to his, but I can’t help feeling prickly and on-edge all the same.
“Bacon and scrambled eggs. And toast. I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to, but—”
“I’ll be happy to eat whatever you make me, Emma.” There’s something gentle in his voice, and I feel my stomach twist, wondering if it’s pity. If he looks around this place, andpitiesme.
That would be worse than judgment, honestly.
“There’s orange juice in the fridge. I can get it—I—” I break off as he stands, the towel slipping dangerously on his hips. I wonder for one wild moment what I would do if the towel suddenly dropped here, in the middle of my kitchen. If he’d grab me and fuck me on the counter, or the table, or bend me over—
“Are you alright?” Dante is looking at me with an odd gleam in his eyes, as if he can read my thoughts. I’ve had that feeling all too often this morning, that he’s right in step with me—or maybe even a step ahead, some of the time.
“Fine.” I clear my throat, turning my back on him to get two glasses out of the cupboard. “Here.”
I thrust one of the glasses at him, trying very hard not to make eye contact with the deep cut of muscle disappearing on either side of his hips into the edge of the towel. I can hear the crackling of the bacon behind me, and I spin quickly, grabbing for the tongs as I hear the refrigerator door open. My chest squeezes suddenly, and I have another rush of emotion that feels difficult to contain.
It’s been six months since anyone was here in the kitchen with me. Since I sat down and had breakfast with someone. I feel that spark of fear again, that feeling that Dante is too close. That he’s seeing too much of me, of my life.
You’re being ridiculous,I tell myself, as I put food on two plates and take the toast out, scraping butter and strawberry jam over it. I’ve been in his home; there’s no reason why him being in mine should be any different. But itis, and I can’t force myself to completely pretend otherwise.
I never dated anyone seriously. I never brought anyone home. I never introduced a boyfriend to my father, or slept with anyone here. I imagine Dante’s had plenty of women in his home. It’s not a new experience for him. It is for me.
Trying to push the thought aside, I put a plate in front of him, retreating to the other side of the table with mine and a glass of orange juice. The windows are cracked, letting in the warm salt air, and I can hear the waves crashing further down the beach. Dante is quiet as he starts to eat, as if he’s not entirely sure what to say, either.
“I threw my clothes in your washer,” he says finally. “I didn’t think you’d have anything else for me to wear home, and they were pretty soaked.”
I fight back the instant reaction that I have to the idea of him throwing in laundry without bothering to ask. It’s the kind of casual arrogance I would expect from him, but more than that, it’s as if he’s made himself at home here. I want to snap at him the same way I did in the shower, but deep down, I know that’s not a logical reaction. What he did made sense, all things considered.
“I wouldn’t have thought you knew how to use a washing machine,” I tell him coolly, setting for a jibe instead. “Are you sure you turned it on correctly?”
“Are you questioning my ability to turn something on?” He narrows his eyes teasingly at me, the line delivered so smoothly that it startles me speechless for a moment. “Of course, I know how to use a washing machine, Emma. It’s not that difficult.”
“Your first time?” I recover as quickly as I can, stabbing my eggs with a fork. “I hear it can be a little tricky.”
Dante smirks at me. “I can’t say I’ve ever struggled with that.”
Of course, you haven’t.Something about it rankles with me—I would almost have preferred that he, this man who has likely never struggled with anything in his entire life, have had a hard time figuring out my washer. But of course, he slipped as smoothly into the ranks of those of us who have to do our own laundry as if he always lived here.
