“It’s nothing really,” she says. Her smile is bright, but it’s too much, reminding me of a fake gem instead of a real one. She’s not exactly lying to me, yet she damn well isn’t telling me the whole truth.
“Nothing, hmm?” I palm her breast, and she presses into my hold. This is the way she is with me; I touch her, and Emilia gravitates to me. If I wanted to get pissed the fuck off, I’d consider she’s this way because I’m the only male to awaken her sexually, but I don’t. “Then why’d you question me?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
That has me grinding my molars. The only things I want on her tongue are my name, my cum, and my cock. She reverts back to “sir” whenever she gets nervous, and even though it’s a rule I subjected her to, I hate it.
“Don’t apologize. Answer the question.” She bites her bottom lip, and I pinch her nipple hard so that she releases it. “Emilia…”
Her face turns bright red, and I listen for sounds of her breathing to make sure she isn’t choking. It helps me relax, somewhat, when she inhales. “I’m sore.” The words are said so quietly I almost don’t hear them despite being less than six inches from her mouth.
As soon as their meaning registers, a heaviness settles on my chest. I attribute it to guilt, but since my focus is on her, I don’t explore that. Of course her body is tired. I’ve only fucked her like an animal several times, thinking only of what I wanted. It’s true she wanted it also, and I’m not a selfish lover, always making sure to pleasure her to the point of madness, but I didn’t stop to consider how new this is to her.
I pull out of her slowly, and she winces, which has me muttering curses under my breath. Her expression is crestfallen, but it quickly turns surprised when I pull her into my arms and head toward the bathroom. She says nothing the entire time I prepare the jacuzzi-sized tub, wash her languidly from head to toe, and then towel her dry. Some of my movements are rough, seeing as this is not something I’ve done except once before, and not one time does Emilia complain. Actually, with every minute that passes, she blossoms under my ministrations, much like she does when I stroke her erogenous zones. I make a mental note of that and order her to get dressed.
After seeing to my own hygiene, I exit the bathroom to find her ready. I’m still fuming over my thoughtlessness concerning her, and it threatens to spill over, which I don’t want. Emilia is as silent as the city’s catacombs, and I aim to rectify that immediately as well as make up this oversight on my part. The one thing I won’t do is dig deep into why I’m thinking this way about my bride.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. She gives me a curt nod, and it bothers me, but I understand it. I’ve forced her to reveal her discomfort and obviously embarrassed her. “Is there anything in particular you want?”
“The love lock bridge.”
Her childlike enthusiasm from last night has returned, much to my relief. The side of my mouth tilts up. “To eat?”
“Oh!” She’s quiet for a moment and then says, “Anything, as long as we eat outside.”
“Consider it done.”
The light returns to her eyes.
And I make sure it stays there throughout the entire day. During breakfast she talks animatedly about any- and everything while I listen with genuine interest. I knew she was intelligent and educated, but seeing it manifest is captivating. Not more than the way Emilia’s face flushes from excitement paired with the chilly fall air.
No matter what we do, it’s mundane. Yet I’ve never been more content. Being away from the demands of the family business, my brother’s expectations, and my own for a short time is a freedom I can’t quite comprehend. For so many years, since I can remember, my life has been full of nothing but revenge. Here with Emilia, I’m just a man with his wife.
I don’t know if it can get better than that.
When we finally make it to the love lock bridge that looks over the Seine River, she stops and simply stares at the amassed locks, which seemingly take up every inch of the bridge’s railings. Couples mill about, and I scan them thoroughly before dismissing them as a threat. I may be here as a guest of theBrise de Mer, but their rival gang may not take kindly to the business negotiations I have in mind.
It’s always best to be vigilant rather than dead.
Emilia brings me out of my thoughts and garners my attention by clasping her hands and pressing them to her chest. She inhales deeply and closes her eyes. I wait, unsure of what’s going on with her. This is similar to a religious experience or something of that nature. Then she opens her eyes, and the shine of tears reflects the sunlight.
The sight of her upset has me closing the distance between us, and right when I’m about to grab her, she turns to me.
“I want a lock, Maximus.” Emilia reaches out to touch one of the hundreds within her range and then retracts her arm. “These are someone else’s, so I shouldn’t…”
I’m careful not to cause her alarm, but I really want to grab her and demand she tell me what she’s thinking about. Instead, I dip my head toward the metal locks. “What are these for? I’ve never taken the time to notice.”
She summons the courage to touch one, laying it on her palm. “People in love have their names engraved on the lock and then secure it on the bridge. Once that’s done, they throw the key into the river. Fact: This tradition didn’t start here. It originated in Hungary. However, the love is all that matters, and it’s the only thing I want to feel.”
Love is a four-letter word, but there are others that hold just as much weight and carry just as much emotion.
Pain.
Rage.
Hate.
These are things I’m familiar with. These are what kept my family energized when we had hitmen after us. They are the emotions that kept us alive when love tried to destroy us. Emilia may think she wants this from me, but I don’t have it to give.
