Page 71 of Dante
I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
The dildo didn't really smell like her. She cleans them well. Better than they need, probably. But there was something. A faint trace. Barely there.
Enough.
My cock was hard before she even left the room. Still half-hard now, despite the pain in my side. Despite the fact that I can barely stand.
I push off the door and face the bathroom.
I strip off my shirt first. Careful. Slow.
The pants are harder. I have to brace myself against the sink. Work them down one leg at a time. By the time I'm standing in just my boxers, I'm sweating.
Pathetic.
Three days ago, I could have run five miles without breaking a sweat. Now I can barely undress myself.
The boxers come off last.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. Pale. Gaunt. The bruising around my wound has spread, purple and yellow blooming across my ribs.
I look like death.
I feel like death.
But I'm alive.
Because of her.
I turn on the faucet. Test the water temperature. Warm. Not hot. Hot would make me dizzy.
The plan is simple. Run water from the waist down. Use my hands to wet the upper body. Keep the wound dry.
Simple.
I step into the tub. I position myself under the faucet, letting the water stream down my hips, my thighs, my legs.
It feels like heaven.
I cup water in my hands. Bring it to my chest. Let it run down my stomach, careful to avoid the bandage.
Again. And again.
The repetition is almost meditative. Scoop. Lift. Pour. Scoop. Lift. Pour.
My mind wanders.
To her.
Always to her.
The way she looked when she fell onto the bed earlier. Half on top of me. Her weight pressing against my chest. Her face inches from mine.
The water runs down my legs. I scoop more into my hands. Pour it over my shoulders.
But my mind won't let go.
Her body against mine. The softness of her. The warmth. If I'd wanted to, I could have wrapped my arms around her. Pulled her closer. Held her against my chest until she stopped fighting.
