I place a hand on his arm, enjoying the hardness of the muscles beneath his jacket sleeve. “I can help myself, but if I do need something, I’ll let you know.”
“Please, do.” His smile is strained. “If there’s nothing you need right now, I’ll let you rest. I have a lot of work to catch up on.”
Without another word, he turns around and heads down the hallway.
Baffled, I watch him enter his study while he works his tie loose.
Hurt and rejection assault me.
What just happened?
Dante has never given me the cold shoulder treatment, at least not that I remember.
Jazz took Noah to a movie with an army of bodyguards. Emily is taking care of the grocery shopping. Considerately, they gave Dante and me a moment alone after my visit to Dr. Chad. We don’t have much time, and I’m not going to waste it.
Squaring my shoulders, I walk to the study and knock on the door before entering. Dante stands in front of the big window with a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
I eye the bottle of scotch on his desk. “It’s a bit early for a pre-dinner drink.”
He watches me with a wary expression as I shut the door and go closer.
His jacket and tie are thrown over the back of a chair. He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt and black slacks, looking as hot as only Dante can. His hair, that’s lost their natural highlights and has turned darker with age, is disheveled in a sexy way. I long to brush the messy fringe from his forehead and bury my fingers in the soft strands. I’ll do anything to feel the roughness of his stubble on my skin.
I stop in front of him and place a hand on his chest. Beneath my palm, his heart beats with an erratic rhythm. The muscles of his broad torso are as hard and relentless as I remember. I may have forgotten a lot, but not this.
Never this.
My smile is coy. “Are you going to share, or are you drinking alone?”
Not waiting for a reply, I snatch the glass from his hand and take a sip. The liquor burns down my throat and makes my eyes water, but I ignore the unpleasant sensations.
He takes back the glass. “What are you doing, Tatiana?”
Glancing up at him, I unbutton his shirt. “Having a drink with my husband.”
His jaw bunches.
A visible shudder runs through him when I brush the edges of the shirt apart and trail my fingertips over his hard-cut abs.
When I pull the shirt tails from his pants, he catches my wrist and repeats his question. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” I free my arm from his hold and kiss the groove that runs down the center of his chest. “I missed you.”
He hisses when I hook my fingers into his belt and tug to pull him closer.
A growl reverberates in his throat. “Tatiana.”
Nimbly, I unbuckle his belt. “Why have you never called me Tiana like everyone else?”
He watches me from hooded eyes. “I like your name. I like the way it sounds when I say it.”
I pop the button of his waistband, but he stops me with his fingers curled around my wrist again. Determined to see this through, I strain in his grasp until he lets me go, and then I pull down his zipper.
His knuckles turn white around the glass in his hand. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Why not?” I wrap my hand around his and lift the glass to my lips. “We’re married, aren’t we?”
Heat darkens his eyes as I turn the glass and drink from the same spot where he’s placed his lips.
