Dante's hands moved to the hem of Mila's sweater, his fingers curling beneath the fabric.
He paused for a second, waiting for permission to continue, and Mila lifted her arms. He pulled it over her head in one smooth motion before tossing it aside. The cool air hit her skin, and she shivered.
But it wasn't from cold but from anticipation.
Dante's gaze dropped, taking her in. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling beneath his shirt. "Bella," he whispered. "Sei perfetta."
Mila reached for his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. Her hands were shaking, and he covered them with his own, steadying her, then finished the job himself. The shirt fell open, and she pressed her palms against his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingers.
