“Fucker,” she whispers, biting my chest.
I lean down into her again, pressing up against her as I pull her hand from me and let her feel how fucking hard I am. I bite her fingers softly, sucking them a moment. “Get dressed. Your dress is on a hanger. I’ll meet you in the hall.”
“What dress?”
I kiss her one more time and then step back, pocketing the note that came with the flowers. “Just put it on. We’re getting married.”
And then I step outside where the face of a man greets me. Older, heavyset.
Mafioso through and through.
“I hear you’re going to protect my future wife.”
I narrow my eyes. “Yes.” The word is hard to get out. It scrapes my throat raw. “Declan Murphy.”
“Do what you want with her,” he says. “I’m not interested in the girl per se.”
“And what are you interested in?”
“What she can give me.”
“And you are?”
“Milo,” he says. “Milo Marcello.”
Fuck.
EIGHT
marlowe
I look like a bride.
Ballerina-style.
And holy hell. My head’s spinning, body throbbing, and heart clenching and seething because of a stolen orgasm from that intense…whatever the hell it was with Declan.
But somehow, after it all, I look fresh and innocent and romantic.
I left my hair up and washed off the makeup.
Because I’m expected to mingle with everyone else, I just stripped off the costume and reached for the dress he left me.
Inside the box are the prettiest, laciest blush pieces of lingerie. Tiny rosebuds and green leaves are somehow appliquéd into the lace and silk.
Sexy and romantic and swoon-worthy.
The dress, though…oh, the dress.
I’d never have picked it. A paler blush of pink, so pale it’s almost white, but the color gives it a lift and instead of clashing with my hair, it compliments.
Whoever picked it has taste.
I look at myself in the dressing room mirror.
The simple silk bodice skims my skin, and the skirt’s silk and tulle.
It should be too much, but it isn’t.
