With a sigh, I turn off the light, dimming the now sparkling clean kitchen into darkness, and decide to go to bed and read, such is my nightly routine. On the way through the house, I stop at the library to see if I can grab a new book, spotting a few more on childhood development.

As I do, I spot Dante’s office light on, and thinking he isn’t home, I move toward the doorway to turn it off before seeing him at his desk, sipping whiskey all alone. I stop in the doorway, like a deer caught in the headlights, not sure what to do or say. His eyes flick up, and he looks at me intently, a small smirk appearing, even though his face looks tired and dark circles run underneath each eye.

“Come here, Little Red,” he commands as he swivels on his chair a little. I do as I am told, excited to see him and happy that he wants to see me. I walk into his office and around his desk to stand next to him. He leans back in his chair and watches me, his head resting against the high back, his whiskey now all but forgotten on his desk.

Standing in front of him, he looks me up and down, taking in my appearance. My flaming red hair is out and wavy around my shoulders, and I am barefoot, wearing a simple airy day dress. Casual, but cute.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Little Red,” he says with a sigh, as he sits forward a little, and his hands meet my legs before they skim up my thighs, so softly I can barely feel him, yet I tremble underneath his touch. My face heats under his gaze as he moves forward, leaning his head against my stomach. I wonder if he can hear my butterflies, which only appeared the moment I laid eyes on him. He is exhausted. I feel bad that I haven’t been able to look after him this week. I lift my hands and bury my fingers in his hair, moving them against his scalp, massaging his head as his hands skim up and down my thighs. “Mmmmmmm,” Dante moans, and I smile because I like to make him feel good. I want him to relax, especially when he is home.

He sits back up, my hands falling slightly and resting on his shoulders. My eyes flick to his shoulder where his wound was, but I can’t see anything underneath his black shirt.

“How is your shoulder?” I ask, running my fingers across the area gently.

“It was better the moment you stepped into the bathroom with me,” he replies with a grin, one which I return as a slight blush colors my cheeks.