Sugar Sweet Sin

That Night

But what the hell do I do? Because one thing's for sure: the longer Dante stays here, the more likely I am to make a terrible mistake.

Remember your story, I tell myself. You have a "boyfriend." Just keep reminding yourself of that fact until you believe it yourself. Not that it seems to be that much of a deterrent to Dante.

It's funny, because in spite of my negative opinion of him, I never thought he'd support infidelity. But between his dealings with Emilia and his shameless behavior toward me, I guess he's changed more than I thought. That knowledge unsettles me more than it should—my body might find him familiar, but in many ways, this man is a stranger.

Still, it's hard to convince myself of that when he comes back into the room with our Chinese food in his arms.

"I presume you're still fine with eating on the bed?" he asks.

He uses the word still. It's a subtle reminder of the handful of times we ate takeout in bed—sometimes naked.

I say nothing as he settles down on the other side of the bed. Nothing as he hands me my sesame chicken. We eat in silence—he must be hungry, to let me get away with ignoring him. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to notice the smooth, measured ease of his movements as he lifts his chopsticks to his mouth. It makes my tongue go dry.

I cough, and Dante looks over immediately.

"I forgot to get you something to drink," he says, rising. "What do you want? Water? Soda? Beer?"

"Water's fine." No alcohol, not around him.

He leaves for the kitchen, and I try not to follow him with my gaze on his way out. Try not to recognize how comfortable he is, making his way around my house. He's almost as familiar with my home as I am, and it's too easy to forget that he hasn't been here in years. A bittersweet ache pulses in my chest. My parents left this house to me when they died, and I've lived here ever since. It's been too long since I've seen anyone else treat it with the sort of easy familiarity that Dante now does. Even Jack, who's been here more times than I can count, still has to ask me where to find the silverware half the time.

Don't start slipping now, I remind myself. Remember the pain.

He returns quickly, a glass of water in either hand, and I swallow down the lump in my throat and give him what I hope is a neutral smile. "Thank you."

"Is there anything else you need?"

I'm not sure which rattles me more—the way his voice deepens on the word anything or the way his eyes gleam when he says need.

"No," I say cheerfully. "I'm good. Please finish your lunch." And get out of here as fast as you can.

He doesn't seem to be in any hurry to bend to my silent wishes, however. Though I gobble down the rest of my food—in hunger and in anxiety—he continues to take his time. And in spite of my best efforts, I continue to find my gaze drawn back to him. It's as if my eyes can't get enough of him. As if they're afraid he'll disappear from my life again if I blink.

What a stupid notion.

Just when I've convinced myself that I'm the biggest glutton for punishment that ever existed, he glances over, his eyes connecting with mine.

My stomach seizes. I want to look away, but I can't. His gaze holds a promise that I'm afraid to believe.

"It's rude to stare," I say shortly.

"I could say the same to you."

I don't have a response to that, but thankfully, he looks away. He sets his food on the nightstand and leans back against the pillows, tilting his head to look up at the ceiling.