Page 70 of Dante
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.
