Page 176 of Dante
"Christ," he breathes.
I reach for his shirt next.
He helps me, sitting up just enough to pull it off. The movement makes him wince—his wound, I know—but he doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down.
The shirt hits the floor.
I look at him.
At the bandage wrapped around his torso. At the bruises mottling his ribs. At the scars scattered across his chest—old ones, faded white, and new ones still pink.
He's been hurt so many times.
Survived so much.
And he's still here.
Still fighting.
Still wanting me.
I trace my fingers over his chest. Feel his heart pounding beneath my palm. He's warm. Solid. Real.
"Marina."
His voice is strained.
I meet his eyes.
"I need you," I tell him.
Simple.
True.
Dante's hands find my hips.
"Then ride me."
I take off my remained clothes.
I lift my hips.
Position myself over him.
His cock presses against my entrance, thick and hot, and I freeze.
He's big.
I knew this. Saw it. Felt it. But knowing and experiencing are different things.
"Slow," Dante says.
His hands grip my hips. Steady. Guiding.
"Take your time."
I lower myself.
