Page 20 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
Her breath stutters, just once. “I thought you were the prince of the Italian mafia,” she says quietly, not pulling away. “Soon to be don.”
“Yes,” I confirm without hesitation, my mouth still close enough that my words graze her skin.
A beat passes. Her hand tightens lightly at my shoulder. “So that means,” she says, thoughtful and dangerous all at once, “you can leave whenever you want. And take whoever you want with you.”
I look down at her, at the way her lashes lower and lift again, at the small hitch in her breath that tells me she already knows what I am asking before I say it.
“Are you giving me permission to end our reception early?” I murmur, my mouth close enough that the words warm her skin.
“Yes,” she gasps, meeting me head on.
I pull her into me without restraint, one hand firm at her waist, the other sliding up to cradle her jaw as my mouth claims hers. The kiss is deep and unashamed, a declaration more than a question, and I feel her melt into it, fingers curling into my jacket as if the rest of the room has already ceased to exist.
Applause erupts around us, loud and sudden, the crowd mistaking possession for performance. I do not break the kiss until I choose to, until her breath is uneven and her lips are soft beneath mine. When I finally draw back, my forehead rests against hers for a brief moment, my voice low and certain.
“Wrong thing to say,Fiorella,” I growl.
My hands slide down, one bracing her thigh, the other firm at her waist, and in one decisive motion I lift her. She lets out a startled laugh that turns into a breathless gasp as I hoist her over my shoulder, her skirt gathered safely in my grip, her body fitting there as I start walking up out of the reception.
6
ROSALINA
I don’t thinkwe even make it fully into the car before he’s on me.
The door has barely closed when his body turns toward mine, the confined space forcing us together. His hands move fast and unhesitating, sliding over my waist, my back, my thigh, like he has been holding himself in check until the last possible second. The world outside disappears the moment the tinted glass seals shut, the city reduced to blurred light and shadow, and suddenly there is nowhere to retreat to—even if I wanted to.
His mouth is on mine before the partition has time to rise.
The kiss knocks the breath straight out of me on impact, hard and claiming, stripped of anything gentle. It feels pent up, restrained for hours, maybe longer, and now unleashed all at once. My pulse stutters under the force of it. I taste champagne and heat and something unmistakably intentional. One hand clamps at my waist, dragging me closer until our bodies align without question, while the other slides up to my jaw, fingers firm against my skin, holding my face exactly where he wants it.
The layers of my dress bunch awkwardly between us, satin and lace and excess, but it doesn’t slow him. It only reminds me how little space there is left between wanting and having.
When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s only to rest his forehead against mine, his breath warm and uneven against my lips.
“Finally,” he murmurs, low and rough, like the word has been sitting on his tongue all night.. “Mine. All mine.”
“Your wife. I am just your wife,” I gasp, the word strange and inevitable at once, settling somewhere deep in my chest where it feels both terrifying and right.
“Not just my wife.” His gaze holds mine, dark and intent, stripping me bare without touching. “You are my wife,” he repeats, slower this time, like he wants it to sink in. “My gorgeous, needy little wife.” His mouth brushes my ear as he speaks, his voice roughening. “Say it.”
The way he says it makes my breath stutter. His arm tightens around me, drawing me closer until there is no space left to pretend I am not exactly where I want to be. The seat presses against my back, his body anchoring me in place, and my thoughts scatter under the weight of his attention.
“I’m yours, Dante,” I whisper, the admission leaving me lightheaded.
“Good girl,” he growls, and the praise coils low in my belly, hot and tight. He kisses me again, softer now, nipping at my lower lip. His hands are everywhere, skimming over the structured bodice of my dress, the boning of my corset. “This fucking dress,” he murmurs against my throat, his teeth grazing my pulse point. “A beautiful prison. Let me get you out.”
He finds the first hidden zipper at my side. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet car. The structured bodice loosens, just an inch, and I suck in a real breath for the first time in hours. He works the second zipper, his fingers sure and urgent. The top of my dress falls open, exposing the plain white silk of my corset. My heart hammers against the constricting fabric.
Dante’s gaze drops. He traces the swell of my breast above the silk, his thumb brushing over a peaked nipple. I jolt at the contact, a sharp, sweet bolt of sensation.
“So responsive,” he whispers, his voice thick with awe. “So perfect for me. My perfect, untouched wife.”
His words are a litany, stoking the fire inside me. He leans down, his mouth hot through the silk, sucking my nipple into a tight, aching point. I cry out, my hands flying to his hair. The sensation is unbearable, a direct line of pleasure to the throbbing heat between my legs.
“Dante…”
“I know what you need,” he says, sitting back. He pushes the voluminous skirts of my dress up, a rustling avalanche of fabric, until my legs are bare to the tops of my white stockings. The cool air of the car hits my inner thighs. I feel exposed, vulnerable,aching.
