“This sucks,” I complain to Borris as I cuddle him closer to my chest, embracing him like a hot pack. “You’re so handsome,” I say, pressing kisses to the top of his head.
The front door clicks open, and I look up as Dante walks in and says, “Thank you, but I prefer to be called sexy.”
My stomach drops. He doesn’t usually come home this early, and I’ve been avoiding him ever since that night at the lake.
I fidget under the blankets, but he points in my direction. “Don’t move now, sweetheart. I know you’ve been avoiding me,” he says matter-of-factly as he drops two plastic bags on the coffee table. The scent of warm food wafts in my direction. I can’t pinpoint precisely what it is, because of my congestion, but my stomach growls, reminding me that all I’ve lined it with today is herbal tea.
Borris, the little traitor, jumps out of my arms and hops over to Dante, tail wagging. Dante pets the dog, offering him all thepraise in the world, and souring my mood. Then Dante reaches toward me, and I flinch as he presses the back of his hand against my forehead and cheeks.
“Thought you might be sick. Wasn’t such a smart idea skinny-dipping after all, huh?”
I sniff, bringing another tissue up to my nose. “Fuck off.”
He chuckles as he removes his leather jacket, and my gaze falls to the pocket where I know his scalpels most likely are. Pulling them out and putting them on the coffee table in front of us, he smirks knowingly. It unnerves me, but I suspect it’s precisely why he’s done it.
“What are you even doing home at this time? Aren’t you usually up todoctorstuff at this hour?”
“I wanted to check in on you,” he says as he walks into his bedroom. He leaves the door open behind him, and I angle my head to try to look inside. At a glance, it’s as I suspected. The room is basically the same as when he first arrived. He hasn’t added one ounce of hominess to it. In fact, I can’t see anything different except a new deep-green bedspread. Everything else must be in the closet and the dresser, which doesn’t leave much room for anything else.
Yet he’s replenished the entire kitchen, and we have a ridiculous amount of toilet paper that will last a fucking lifetime.
He peels off his shirt, and I swallow as I admire the tattoos on his back and chest. It’s only from close-up that the jagged scars are noticeable. A chill racks me as I think about how casually he mentioned that his father was the cause of most of them, and the rest were "occupational hazards." So many questions ran through my mind in that moment.What kind of upbringing did he have?What kind of "occupational hazards" can a doctor have to receive so many scars? Did it hurt when he got them? Is he okay?But I stop those thoughts in their tracks, somethingin me warning that Dante is dangerous, and the less I know, the better.
He flexes, the tattoos on his forearms popping with reds and greens. His tattoos are beautiful.Heis beautiful. That is, of course, until I see the smirk on his face, forming one perfect dimple when he turns around and faces me. My gaze immediately drops to his carved six-pack and prominent V-line.
I snap my attention back to the television, pissed by my treacherous body. Even when sick, she’s a ho.
When Dante steps out of his room, he’s wearing only gray sweatpants, the bulge of his semi-hard cock making my stomach flutter.
No.I remind my aching body.
After stopping in the kitchen for plates, he comes to sit right beside me on the couch.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, irritated that he acts as if right beside me is the most natural spot for him to be. Considering there are two other perfectly good seats.
“Come on, roomie, I don’t smell that bad,” he says, leaning over to drag over the bags of food.
“Well, at least this time you don’t have blood all over you,” I grumble, and his slow smirk betrays him.
“It was a slow night. However, thank you for asking how my day went.”
“I wasn’t.” Gosh, this guy is so full of himself.
“I hope you like Thai,” he says, pulling out the plastic containers. My stomach involuntarily growls again. I look over my shoulder to find Borris distracted and gnawing away at a bone.
“Shouldn’t you be trying to feed a sick person soup or something?”
“I can make you some soup if you don’t want this.”
I lean back, doing a double-take. “You can cook?”
He sounds affronted as he dishes out an assortment of items onto two plates. “I’m Italian, of course I can cook.” I had my suspicions about his Italian heritage with the faint accent, bronze complexion, and dark features.
The muscles beneath his skin move back and forth as he plates up the food, mesmerizing me. Since he’s sitting so close, it allows me to take a better look at his scars—a large one tears down his back. My hand moves of its own accord, slipping out from the blankets to trace the jagged edge. A small twist of sadness turns in my lower stomach. It looks harsh, and I wonder what happened to leave such a vile scar.
Did his dad do this to him?
When I look up, he’s staring at me, those brown eyes darkening. I can sense he wants me to ask about it. To ask abouthim.So I pull away.
