Between Loyalty and You

Chapter 3 (Sofia's POV)

The private doctor arrived just after noon, a quiet man with silver hair and the kind of eyes that had seen too many bodies and asked too few questions. Dante stood at the foot of the bed the entire time, arms crossed, watching every movement like he expected the man to hurt me.

I lay still while cold hands checked the bandages, pressed carefully along my ribs, shone a light into my eyes. The concussion was mild. The ribs would take weeks. The cuts on my temple and shoulder needed cleaning again. When the doctor asked me to sit up so he could rewrap my torso, Dante’s voice cut through the room.

“I’ll do it.”

The doctor hesitated only a second before packing his bag and leaving a fresh set of bandages, painkillers, and instructions on the nightstand. The door clicked shut. Silence settled heavy between us.

Dante came around the side of the bed. He didn’t speak as he helped me sit up. The movement pulled at the fractures and I couldn’t stop the soft hiss of pain that escaped. His hands were immediately there, steadying me, one large palm splayed between my shoulder blades.

“Breathe through it,” he murmured.

I did. Slow, careful inhales that still hurt. He waited until the worst of it passed, then reached for the hem of the shirt. This time there was no pretense of privacy. He lifted the fabric over my head with the same controlled care as before, leaving me bare from the waist up except for the old bandages.

The cool air of the room tightened my n*****s almost instantly. I didn’t try to cover myself. I watched his face instead—the way his eyes tracked the rise and fall of my breasts, the faint flush that climbed up the side of his neck, the muscle that jumped in his jaw when he forced his gaze onto the medical tape.

He cut the old bandages away with a small pair of scissors, the metal cold against my skin. Each strip is peeled free with a soft sound. When the last of it was gone, I sat naked to the waist in front of him, only covering the thin black underwear that still rode low on my hips.

His hands were careful as he cleaned the fading bruises and the shallow scrapes along my side. The antiseptic stung. I welcomed it. Anything to keep me from focusing too hard on the heat of his fingers.

“You’re quiet,” I said.

“I’m concentrating.”

“On not looking at my t**s?”

His eyes flicked up, dark and warning. “Sofia.”

“They’re right here, Dante. You already saw them this morning. You already had your mouth on my neck while your c**k was hard against my back. Looking isn’t going to kill either of us.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he began wrapping the fresh bandage around my ribs. The process forced him close. His knuckles brushed the undersides of my breasts with every pass of the gauze. I felt the slight tremor in his hands each time the contact lingered a second longer than necessary. By the time he finished, my breathing had gone shallow for reasons that had nothing to do with pain.

He reached for the shirt again. I caught his wrist.

“Leave it off.”

“You’re cold.”

“I’m not.” I guided his hand, still loosely held in mine, and placed it over my left breast. His palm was warm, slightly rough. My n****e hardened against it immediately. “Feel that? That’s not from the temperature.”

For three full heartbeats he didn’t move. His hand stayed exactly where I put it, cupping the soft weight of me, thumb resting just beneath the peak. I watched the war play out across his face—the loyalty, the self-control, the hunger that had been eating him alive since the night of the accident.

Then his thumb moved.

A slow, deliberate stroke across my n****e. Once. Twice. The sensation shot straight between my legs, sharp and sweet. A soft sound left my throat. His eyes darkened further.

“This is how it starts,” he said, his voice low and rough. “One touch. One second of weakness. Then I forgot who the f**k you are.”

“I want you to forget.”

His hand tightened, squeezing gently, testing the give of my flesh. The other hand came up and mirrored the first, both of my breasts filling his palms. He rolled my n*****s between his thumbs and forefingers, the pressure just shy of too much. My head tipped back. The pain in my ribs faded under the flood of heat.

“You’re injured,” he said, almost to himself. “You can’t take what I would do to you.”

“Then don’t do everything. Just this.”

He cursed under his breath—something filthy in Italian—and leaned in. His mouth replaced one hand. Hot, wet, open. He sucked my n****e between his lips and dragged his tongue across it in slow, filthy circles. The sensation was so sharp I arched despite the protest in my side. His free hand slid down my stomach, fingers tracing the edge of my underwear.

I opened my legs without being asked.

His palm cupped me through the damp cotton. He could feel how wet I already was. A low, approving sound vibrated against my breast as he pressed two fingers firmly against my c**t through the fabric, rubbing in tight, deliberate circles.

“f**k, you’re soaked,” he muttered against my skin. “All from me touching you like this.”

“I’ve been wet for you since I was sixteen,” I whispered. “You just never let yourself find out.”

Something in him snapped at the words. He shoved the underwear aside with rough efficiency. Two thick fingers slid through my folds, gathering the slickness, then pushed inside me in one slow, relentless thrust. I cried out—half pain from the stretch, half pure relief. He was thick even with just his fingers, curling them immediately to drag against the spot that made my vision spark.

He f****d me with his hand while his mouth worked my breasts, switching from one n****e to the other, biting just hard enough to leave marks. Every thrust of his fingers was measured, controlled, but the look on his face was anything but. His c**k strained hard against the front of his sweatpants, the thick outline impossible to ignore. I reached for it.

He caught my wrist with his free hand and pinned it to the mattress beside my hip.

“No,” he growled against my throat. “You don’t get to touch me. Not yet. Not until I decide I can live with the consequences.”

I whimpered, hips rolling to meet the thrust of his fingers. He added a third. The stretch burned in the best way. His thumb found my c**t again and rubbed in firm, relentless circles while he curled and stroked inside me. The dual sensation built fast—too fast. My free hand fisted in the sheets. My ribs ached with every sharp breath, but I didn’t care.

“Dante— I’m going to—”

“Come,” he ordered, voice dark and absolute. “Come on my fingers like you’ve wanted to for years.”

The orgasm hit hard. My body locked, thighs clamping around his wrist, a broken cry tearing from my throat as I pulsed around him. He worked me through it, slowing only when the last tremors faded, and I collapsed back against the pillows, shaking and breathless.

He withdrew his hand slowly. I watched, dazed, as he brought those glistening fingers to his mouth and licked them clean, eyes locked on mine the entire time. The sight nearly made me come again.

Then the control slammed back into place.

He stood, adjusted the heavy erection in his sweatpants with a grimace, and walked to the bathroom. I heard water running. When he returned, his face was, once again, the carefully blank mask of the don.

He helped me back into the shirt without a word, then sat on the edge of the bed and brushed damp hair from my forehead with surprising gentleness.

“That can’t happen again,” he said quietly.

I was still trembling, still open and wet and aching for more. I looked up at him and smiled, slow and knowing.

“You said that this morning too.”

His thumb stroked once across my lower lip. The touch was almost tender.

“Your father will be back in eight days,” he said. “Until then, you stay in this bed. You heal. And I keep my hands to myself.”

I caught his wrist before he could pull away, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his palm—the same palm that still smelled like me.

“We’ll see,” I whispered.

He left the room without another word.

I lay there in the quiet aftermath, thighs still slick, n*****s still sensitive against the soft fabric of his shirt, and stared at the ceiling with a satisfaction that went bone-deep.

He could lie to himself all he wanted.

I had felt the way his c**k twitched when I came around his fingers. I had seen the hunger he could no longer fully hide.

Eight more days.

And I intended to make every single one of them count.