Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dante
The apartment is quiet when I finally drag myself out of the bedroom.
Every step costs me. The wound in my side screams with each movement. Dr. Marchetti would have my head if he knew I was walking around like this.
But I can't stay in that bed another minute.
The living room is dim. Blue light flickers from the television. Some cooking show plays on mute, the host silently chopping vegetables.
Marina is curled up on the couch.
Her eyes are closed. Her breathing is slow. One hand is tucked under her cheek. The other rests on her stomach, fingers slightly curled.
I stand in the doorway and watch her.
There she is.
The thought comes unbidden. The same thought I've had a thousand times over the past two years. Every time I checked her location. Every time I drove past her building. Every time I told myself I was just making sure she was safe.
There she is.
Her eyes flutter open.
For a moment, she just looks at me. Confused. Half-asleep. Then awareness sharpens her gaze.
"Dante." She sits up. Pushes hair out of her face. "Do you need something?"
"A bath."
She blinks. "What?"
"I need to wash." I gesture vaguely at myself. "I've been lying in that bed for two days. I smell bad."
Marina's nose wrinkles. She's too polite to agree out loud, but I see it.
"The doctor said no running water on the wound." She stands. Crosses her arms. "You can't take a shower."
"I know."
"And you definitely can't take a bath. Submerging the stitches—"
"I know, Marina."
She stops. Waits.
"I can manage," I tell her. "I'll be careful."
Her eyes narrow. She doesn't believe me.
Smart woman.
"Fine." She waves toward the bathroom. "Towels are in the cabinet. Don't tear your stitches. Don't pass out. Don't make me drag your unconscious body out of the tub."
"Your concern is touching."
"It's self-preservation. I don't want to explain a dead body to my landlord."
I almost smile. Almost.
Instead, I nod and make my way to the bathroom.
The door closes behind me.
I lean against it for a moment. Let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Christ.
The thing with the drawer wasn't necessary.
I know that. I knew it when I opened it. I knew it when I pulled out that first vibrator. I knew it when I held that dildo up to my face and watched her cheeks turn red.
It wasn't necessary.
But her face.
God, her face.
The shock. The outrage. The way her eyes went wide and her lips parted and her whole body went rigid with embarrassment.
I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
The dildo didn't really smell like her. She cleans them well. Better than they need, probably. But there was something. A faint trace. Barely there.
Enough.
My cock was hard before she even left the room. Still half-hard now, despite the pain in my side. Despite the fact that I can barely stand.
I push off the door and face the bathroom.
I strip off my shirt first. Careful. Slow.
The pants are harder. I have to brace myself against the sink. Work them down one leg at a time. By the time I'm standing in just my boxers, I'm sweating.
Pathetic.
Three days ago, I could have run five miles without breaking a sweat. Now I can barely undress myself.
The boxers come off last.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. Pale. Gaunt. The bruising around my wound has spread, purple and yellow blooming across my ribs.
I look like death.
I feel like death.
But I'm alive.
Because of her.
I turn on the faucet. Test the water temperature. Warm. Not hot. Hot would make me dizzy.
The plan is simple. Run water from the waist down. Use my hands to wet the upper body. Keep the wound dry.
Simple.
I step into the tub. I position myself under the faucet, letting the water stream down my hips, my thighs, my legs.
It feels like heaven.
I cup water in my hands. Bring it to my chest. Let it run down my stomach, careful to avoid the bandage.
Again. And again.
The repetition is almost meditative. Scoop. Lift. Pour. Scoop. Lift. Pour.
My mind wanders.
To her.
Always to her.
The way she looked when she fell onto the bed earlier. Half on top of me. Her weight pressing against my chest. Her face inches from mine.
The water runs down my legs. I scoop more into my hands. Pour it over my shoulders.
But my mind won't let go.
Her body against mine. The softness of her. The warmth. If I'd wanted to, I could have wrapped my arms around her. Pulled her closer. Held her against my chest until she stopped fighting.
I could have touched her.
Run my hands down her back. Over the curve of her waist. Lower.
Her ass.
Christ.
I've thought about her ass more times than I can count. The way it looked in that yoga pants she was wearing back then around the compound. The way it would feel in my hands. Soft. Full. Perfect.
My cock stirs.
I ignore it.
Try to ignore it.
The water keeps running. I keep scooping. Keep pouring.
But the images won't stop.
Marina on top of me. Marina underneath me. Marina on her knees. Marina with her back arched and her mouth open and my name on her lips.
Fuck.
I'm hard now. Fully hard.
Every time my mind drifted to her—and it drifted often—I ended up like this. Hard. Aching. Desperate.
And every time, I did the same thing.
I took myself in hand and thought about her until I came.
In my apartment. In the shower.
The thought of doing it here—in her bathroom, in her tub, with her just on the other side of that door—makes me harder.
I shouldn't.
I know I shouldn't.
But my hand is already moving. Wrapping around my cock. Squeezing.
Fuck.
The relief is immediate. Sharp. Almost painful.
I stroke once. Twice.
My eyes close.
I see her.
Marina on the bed. Her hair spread across the pillow. Her lips parted. Her eyes dark with want.
Dante.
My name in her mouth. The way she'd say it. Breathless. Needy.
I stroke faster.
The water runs forgotten down my legs. The wound in my side throbs. I don't care. Can't care. Not now.
All I can think about is her.
Her hands on my chest. Her nails dragging down my back. Her thighs wrapped around my waist as I push inside her.
God.
My head drops forward. Water drips from my hair.
I'm close already. Too close. Two years of wanting her and now I'm in her space, surrounded by her scent, and I can't—
I think about her drawer.
That dildo.
She's fucked herself with that thing. In this apartment. Maybe in this very bathroom. Maybe right where I'm standing.
Did she think about anyone when she did it?
Did she think about me?
The thought pushes me over the edge.
I come hard. Harder than I have in months. My whole body shudders. My hand works faster, milking every last drop.
A sound escapes me. Low. Guttural.
A moan.
I can't stop it. Can't hold it back.
"Fuck."
The word echoes off the tile.
I stand there. Panting. My hand still wrapped around my cock. My legs shaking.
Christ.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I'm a grown man.
And here I am. Jerking off in a woman's bathtub.
Pathetic.
I reach for the faucet. Turn off the water.
The silence is deafening.
Then—
A knock on the door.
"Dante?"
Marina's voice. Concerned. Cautious.
"Are you okay in there?"
I freeze.
Fuck.
Marina
The groan stops me cold.
I'm halfway to the kitchen when I hear it. Low. Guttural. The kind of sound a man makes when he's in pain and trying to hide it.
Damn it.
I told him this was a bad idea. I told him he wasn't ready. But did he listen? No. Because Dante Castellani doesn't listen to anyone.
I turn back toward the bathroom. My bare feet are silent on the hardwood.
Another sound. Muffled. I can't make out the word.
My hand hovers over the door.
What if he fell? What if he tore his stitches? What if he's bleeding out in my bathtub right now because he was too stubborn to ask for help?
I knock.
"Dante?"
Silence.
My heart pounds harder.
"Are you okay in there?"
More silence. Then—
"I'm fine."
His voice sounds strange. Rough. Strained.
"You don't sound fine."
"I said I'm fine, Marina."
I press my palm flat against the door. "I heard you. You made a sound. Like you were hurt."
"I'm not hurt."
"Then what—"
"I'm fine." The word comes out sharp. Final. "Give me two minutes."
I step back from the door.
Something feels off. His voice. The way he said it. Like he was caught doing something he shouldn't.
But what could he possibly be doing in there that—
Oh.
The thought hits me like a slap.
No.
He wouldn't.
He's injured. He can barely stand. He's in my bathroom, in my apartment, with a bullet wound in his side.
He wouldn't be...
Would he?
My face burns.
I back away from the door. One step. Two.
Stop it. You're being ridiculous. He probably just moved wrong and pulled his stitches. That's all. That's the only explanation.
I retreat to the living room. Sit on the couch. Stare at the wall.
My mind won't stop racing.
The groan I heard. The way his voice sounded after. Rough. Breathless.
Like he'd just—
No.
I press my palms against my eyes.
Stop. Thinking. About. It.
Two minutes pass. Maybe three.
The bathroom door opens.
I look up.
And immediately wish I hadn't.
Dante stands in the hallway. Water droplets cling to his chest, his shoulders, his arms. His dark hair is wet, pushed back from his face.
He's wearing a towel.
Just a towel.
And it's small. Too small. The kind of towel meant for drying hands, not wrapping around a grown man's waist.
It barely covers him. The fabric stretches tight across his hips, riding low enough that I can see the V of muscle that disappears beneath the edge. The hem hits mid-thigh at best.
And there's a shape.
A very obvious shape.
Right where his—
I look away. Fast.
Not fast enough.
"My eyes are up here."
His voice is amused. Warm. Like he caught me doing something I shouldn't.
Which he did.
"I wasn't—" I start.
"You were."
"I was not."
"Marina." He says my name like it's a joke only he understands. "You were staring at my dick."
"I was staring at the towel." My face is on fire. "Because it's ridiculous. That's not even a real towel. That's a hand towel."
"It's what you had."
"I have bigger towels."
"This one was closest."
"So you just grabbed the smallest towel in my bathroom and wrapped it around your—" I gesture vaguely at his lower half without looking. "—your situation?"
"My situation?"
"Go get dressed."
He doesn't move.
I can feel him watching me. That same intense stare he's had since he showed up bleeding at my door. Like he's trying to read something written on my skin.
"You're going to get cold," I say. "You can't afford to get sick right now. Your immune system is already compromised from the blood loss. If you catch a chill—"
"Are you worried about me?"
"I'm worried about having to explain to Lorenzo why his enforcer died of pneumonia in my apartment."
"I'm not going to die of pneumonia."
"You might if you keep standing there half-naked and dripping water everywhere."
He takes a step toward me.
I stand up from the couch. Put distance between us.
"Dante. Go. Get. Dressed."
"Make me."
The words hang in the air.
My eyes betray me. They drop to his chest. To the bandage wrapped around his ribs. To the bruising that spreads across his skin like a storm cloud.
Lower.
To the towel.
To the shape beneath it.
God.
Even injured. Even pale and gaunt and barely able to stand. Even with a bullet wound in his side and dark circles under his eyes.
He's beautiful.
I hate that I notice. I hate that I can't stop noticing.
"Your wound," I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Did you keep it dry?"
"Yes."
"You didn't get the bandage wet?"
"No."
"Good." I nod. Once. Twice. "Good. That's good. Now go put on clothes before you catch hypothermia and I have to explain to Sophia why I let her husband's best soldier freeze to death in my hallway."
"Best soldier?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
He's smiling now. That half-smile that makes something twist in my chest.
I point toward the bedroom. "Clothes. Now."
"Yes, ma'am."
He turns.
The towel shifts.
I catch a glimpse of his ass—muscled, firm, water still clinging to the skin—before I force myself to look at the ceiling.
Jesus Christ.
His footsteps fade down the hall. The bedroom door closes.
I sink back onto the couch.
My hands are shaking.
I tell myself it's the nerve damage. The same nerve damage that makes me drop things and cramp at the worst moments.
But my left hand is shaking too.
And there's nothing wrong with my left hand.