I am relaxing in Dante’s big bed. It is late, but my head is propped up on his soft headboard as I think back to his lips on mine. It is a memory that I have been reliving all day, and so as I devour yet another book about Italy, I can’t help but wonder what he feels about me. Engrossed in a page about Sicilian cooking, I jump when the bedroom door flies open, watching open-mouthed as he struts through the room and into the bathroom, his face hard, and his eyes angry.

My heart pounds and adrenaline pumps through my body as I scramble off the bed, rushing to follow him. I stop suddenly, speechless as I stand in silence at the bathroom door. He peels his now red, wet shirt off his body, surveying his torso in the mirror.

There is so much blood. My eyes roam him from top to bottom, looking for wounds or gashes, but I can’t see anything but blood. He looks at me then, eyeing me, watching to see what my next move is.

After a moment, I position my small body in between his and the bathroom vanity and turn on the tap, filling the basin with water and wetting a cloth. His attention stays on me, his jaw is clenched, his eyes searching my face, his nostrils flaring. I say nothing. I don’t ask questions, because I know he won’t answer me anyway.

I begin to wipe his bare chest with the wet cloth, clearing the blood and searching for any sign of damage. The bathroom light shines down on us from above, and I can now clearly see the array of black ink covering his body. His muscles are carved, built broad and strong, and he has scatterings of scars that make him even sexier. His battle wounds of sorts. My hands shake a little as I touch his skin, setting my own on fire in the process.

He is tall, so I reach up on my tiptoes to wipe down his shoulders, his chest glistening in the lights from the blood and water. My hands move gently over his hot skin as I try to concentrate on ensuring he is okay and not the fact that I am now touching his bare chest.

His hands close around my waist, and before I know it my feet are off the ground as he sits me on the vanity. It brings me high enough that we are now nearly face to face. He doesn’t drop his hands, instead they remain warm against my waist, and he steps forward, even closer to me, his hips spreading my legs apart and positioning his body flush with mine.