Page 68 of The Woman in the Hollow
“And you hope to have a woman in here permanently one day, right?”
His gaze cut to mine, and I swear my chest swooped.
“Right,” he agreed, his voice a little lower, softer.
“No! Don’t put me on the bed,” I objected when he almost lowered me down onto the off-white linen comforter. “I’m filthy,” I added.
“I can loan you a shirt to wear,” he offered, lowering me down onto my feet, his hands spanning my hips for a moment to make sure I was steady before he moved over toward his walk-in closet.
I toed out of my dirty shoes.
When he handed me the shirt and moved to leave and I tried to lift my arms to remove my top, though, a surprised cry escaped me.
Dante turned back, concern creasing his brow.
“You okay?”
“My shoulders,” I admitted. “I don’t think I can take this shirt off.”
He glanced at it, then up to my face. “Do you have any emotional attachment to the shirt?”
“No? It’s just a shirt.”
“Good,” he said, going over to the nightstand and coming back with a pair of scissors.
Moving in front of me, he started slicing the material down from the collar to the edge of each sleeve.
It didn’t take more than that.
The material floated down off of me to pool at my feet, leaving me standing there in a plain black t-shirt bra that was practically as boring as a bathing suit.
Still, I noticed the way Dante’s nostrils flared, how his eyes went heavy-lidded. It seemed to take actual effort for his gaze to make it back up from my chest.
“No wonder you couldn’t lift your arms.” His hand pressed gently into my shoulder. Even the barely-there pressure made me hiss. “These bruises are going to be impressive by tomorrow,” he said, moving behind me to check them out on the back. “Alright. Change of plan.”
He made his way back to his closet and returned with a long zip-front hoodie. “Button and zip-ups for a few days, I think.” He helped me slide my arms in, then slowly zipped the front. While I tried like hell not to whimper at the brush of his knuckles up my belly as he moved the zipper into place.
Finished with that, he reached up under the shirt to snag the waistband of my pants, drawing them down until they slid to the floor and I could step out.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked, pulling back the covers on the bed and fluffing the pillows.
“I think I just need to sleep.”
“Yeah. I wish I could say you’ll feel better after, but realistically, you’ll probably feel worse for a day or so. But if you’re asleep, you won’t notice.”
“Good plan,” I agreed, carefully climbing onto the bed, then smiling up at Dante as he actually tucked me in.
I didn’t remember the last time someone tucked me in. It was unexpectedly charming.
After that, he walked over, closing the drapes, then brought me the remote for the TV on the wall across from the bed. “In case you can’t sleep in the quiet. Get some rest, babe. I’ll be right downstairs if you need me.”
With that, he turned off the light, closed the door, and left me alone.
Thank God, too. Because his bed smelled like him and a helpless little moan escaped me as I turned my head on the pillow.
I was bone-deep tired, overfull, in pain, and mildly drunk; I should not have been able to feel turned on on top of all that.
There was no reasoning with desire, though. My pulse thrummed. My skin burned. A pressure built in my core.
