Page 93 of The Wrong Man

Dante’s dark eyes drop down to my cock. As if my hands aren’t there, or are entirely see-through.

Fuck my life. I just drew attention to my problem instead of hiding it.

I suck in a shaky breath. It’s fine. We are both adults. I’m not the only one who’s affected. I felt his reaction to our kiss. Felt it all hot and firm and pressing against my thigh.

“Good night!” I shriek suddenly and several octaves too high.

Dante drags his gaze up from my crotch area. His eyes are heated. The very corners of his lips are curling. Twitching. He is both aroused and trying not to laugh at me.

“Good night,” he says with great dignity.

I nod and turn on my heels. I hurry out of the living room with all the grace I can muster, which is not much.

Out in the hallway, my lungs ease a little. But it’s a bit dark out here. Slightly lonely without the heat of Dante’s attention.

I look over my shoulder, back towards the living room, as if I have regrets about leaving. I’m being stupid, as usual. I don’t have regrets. Why would I have regrets?

Angrily, I whip my head back around. Blinding, sharp pain explodes all over my face as I ricochet back from the bedroom doorframe.

“Feck!” I yell.

My hands cover my forehead, which seems to have taken the brunt of my collision.

Dante appears out of nowhere. Materializing next to me like some sort of avenging angel. His shoulders are tight, gaze sweeping up and down the hallway with all the intensity of full alert.

“Everything is grand!” I assure him. “We aren’t under attack. The wall… was just there. Being a wall. Jumping out at me.”

Dante relaxes. His entire body language shifts. Flowing effortlessly from guard dog to concerned puppy.

“That was quite a thud. Are you okay?”

Jesus and Mary, and all the saints. I’m so glad my hand is over my forehead because hopefully it is also hiding some of my blush.

“I’m…I’m fine! Never been better!”

“Let me see.”

“You don’t need to see a giant lump on my forehead.”

Gentle fingers wrap around my hand. My body betrays me and meekly allows Dante to pull my hand away from my head.

He peers intently at my forehead. My heart flutters and my stomach does gymnastics.

“You’re fine. It’s not even going to bruise.”

He leans forward and gently presses his soft lips against my sore spot. Kissing me better. With great care and attention. Making my skin tingle with the echo of his touch.

Something ignites deep within me. Something feral and hungry and demanding.

My hands grab Dante’s shirt, and I yank him down to me. I pull those soft lips next to mine and I kiss him.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. He doesn’t seem surprised at all. He kisses me back as if his need for me was a bomb and my kiss lit the fuse.

Everything is lips and tongues and teeth and fumbling hands.

Dimly I’m aware that we are staggering into the bedroom in a tangle of limbs, desperately ripping our clothes off each other as if they have suddenly burst into flames.

We crash naked onto the bed, our bodies entwined as if they were always meant to fit together. Dante is hot, like he is lit from within by an intense fire. The heat of him seeps into me, burning through my skin, heating my muscles and warming my bones. I can feel him everywhere, down to my soul, and we are only kissing and touching. Hands exploring each other hungrily.