Page 78 of The Woman in the Hollow
That afternoon and evening went by in a bit of a blur. We drifted around the house as Dante told me about his plans, asked for my opinions on paint swatches, different couches, and lighting. Not that he needed my help. The finished parts of his house were breathtaking. I couldn’t design anything more homey if I tried.
After that, I kept Dante company as he moved around the kitchen, making dinner. As a woman who’d never been cooked for before (unless reheated tacos counted—and they didn’t), you could say I was fascinated.
And, yes, turned on. Almost obnoxiously so. Who would have thought a man who knew how to bread chicken breasts and make al dente pasta would be so appealing?
When he dipped a finger into the sauce only to lick it off the tip of his finger, I nearly combusted.
Add on the fact that the food was not just edible, but some of the best I’d ever eaten, and, yeah, you could say I was just barely holding myself back from climbing on his lap when he’d gently unwrapped my hands, checked their progress, and declared that I could take the long bath I’d been dreaming of, so long as I was careful about my palms.
If I were a stronger person, I would have insisted on helping with the dishes first.
As it was, I barely trusted myself to climb the steps and shut myself behind a locked door.
I spent the whole bath (complete with three water changes to keep it warm) trying to rationalize past my desire.
The problem was that I could hear Dante moving around the house. And the water kept teasing across my already sensitive skin.
I drained the tub and climbed out with a sigh, deciding I would just have to suffer through my feelings, since there was no getting rid of them.
When I came out of the bathroom wearing one of Dante’s shirts instead of the ones Sofia bought for me, I saw Dante lingering in the hallway.
“You okay?”
“Just wanted to dip in to get my stuff from the shower.”
“What stuff?”
“Soap, shampoo, that kind of thing.”
“Why do you need it?”
“So I can shower in the guest room.”
“What? No. I’m not putting you out of your own shower. Go ahead,” I said, waving toward the bathroom as I made my way to the bed.
Should I have excused myself, given him privacy? Absolutely. But, yeah, I was not going to do that.
“You sure?”
“Of course.” I made a show of spreading my new blanket on the bed, feigning a casualness I didn’t feel in the least.
With that, Dante moved into the bathroom, closing the door with a quiet click.
What I should have done then was turn on the TV, give him the illusion of privacy.
I didn’t do that either, though.
I took my aching desire to bed with me, turned on the pillow, and listened as the water turned down, then as it got interrupted by Dante’s body, just to slap down on the floor once it glided down each toned muscle.
Then, yeah, it all devolved from there.
Suddenly, I was seeing myself in that shower with him, running my hands over every firm inch of him, pressing my naked body to his, feeling his hands roaming over me like he was just as greedy as I was.
I didn’t need any help imagining his lips on mine or the feel of his hands on my skin, his fingers inside me.
I was so caught up in my fantasy that I let out a surprised yelp when the door suddenly opened.
Then there he was.
