Honey
Dante wasn't okay.
I didn't care what happened or what he did. He carried it with him. It tortured him with guilt. I knew he couldn't talk about this with his brothers. He had to be strong for them.
But I didn't want him to be strong for me.
I straddled his lap, my thighs sandwiching his hips.
He needed gentleness. He needed tender. He needed someone to look into his eyes and tell him he wasn't alone. I shouldn't want to be that person. But my heart ached for him. My breath fanned over his lips as I stared into his stormy eyes.
His entire body was tense. Exhausted. Over-worked.
I could feel his heart racing under my hands, the thick bands of muscle straining the material of his button-down shirt. “Please, Dante," I whispered. “I want to help you. I want to make it better.
