I trace the red marks gently with my fingertips, feeling the slight heat of irritated skin. “We’ll get you some padded cuffs tomorrow,” I promise, meaning every word. “Silk-lined, much more comfortable for extended wear. I should have thought of that sooner.”
“Ginni,” he says quietly, and there’s something different in his voice. Softer. Less combative. The sharp edges of anger and defiance have been worn smooth, replaced by something that sounds almost like acceptance. “Are you going to keep me chained forever?”
The question catches me off guard, not because I haven’t considered it extensively, but because of how he asks. There’s no anger in it, no accusation or demand. Just genuine curiosity,like he’s trying to understand the parameters of our new life together.
“Not forever,” I assure him, settling beside him on the bed and taking his hand in mine. “Just until you’re ready. Until you understand that this is where you belong, that this is what happiness looks like.”
He nods slowly, as if he’s actually considering my answer rather than dismissing it outright. His thumb brushes across my knuckles in a gesture so gentle it takes my breath away. Another small victory in our ongoing negotiation of love.
“I should make us dinner,” I announce suddenly, energized by the domesticity of it all. “Our first meal as a married couple. What would you like?”
“Whatever you want to make,” Carlo says, and the easy compliance in his voice makes my chest tight with happiness. No arguments, no demands, just trust in my ability to take care of him properly.
I practically skip to the kitchen, my mind already racing through possibilities. Tonight calls for something special, something celebratory but also nourishing. He needs protein after our activities, something substantial and satisfying. I settle on steak and baby potatoes, perfectly seasoned and cooked exactly how he likes it. Medium rare, with just a hint of garlic and rosemary, the way he always orders it.
The cooking itself becomes a meditation, each step performed with loving care and complete attention. The sizzle of meat in the cast iron pan, the herb-scented steam rising from the perfectly roasted potatoes, the satisfaction of timing everything to absolute perfection. This is what marriage should be. Taking care of each other, creating moments of simple pleasure together, building a life one meal at a time.
I select our best plates, the ones with the delicate gold rim that catch the light beautifully. Everything must be perfect forour first dinner as husband and wife. The presentation matters almost as much as the taste, because Carlo deserves to feel cherished in every possible way.
When I return with the tray, Carlo’s eyes light up at the sight of the perfectly prepared meal, and I feel a warm glow of satisfaction. “That smells incredible.”
“Only the best for my husband,” I beam, settling on the edge of the bed and cutting the steak into perfect bite-sized pieces. The meat is exactly the right temperature, pink in the center and perfectly seared on the outside. The knife glides through it like butter.
I feed him slowly, savoring each moment of intimacy. The way he opens his mouth trustingly for each piece, the satisfied sounds he makes as he chews, the way his eyes drift closed in appreciation of the flavors. It’s better than any restaurant could ever be, because it’s ours. Because I made it with love, just for him.
“This is incredible,” he murmurs between bites. “You’re an amazing cook.”
The compliment makes me flush with pleasure. “I wanted tonight to be special. Our wedding night deserves a proper celebration.”
A drop of juice escapes the corner of his mouth, and without thinking, I lean forward and catch it with my tongue. His sharp stubble rasps against me, and the taste of him mixed with the rich meat makes me dizzy with want, and I see something flicker in his eyes that looks dangerously like desire. Not the resigned acceptance I’ve been working with, but genuine heat.
“Delicious,” I whisper against his skin, and he shivers in response.
We finish the meal in comfortable silence, Carlo accepting each bite with increasing ease. The tension that’s been hisconstant companion for days seems to have finally begun to ebb, replaced by something that looks almost like contentment.
When the meal is finished, I sit back to study his face properly. The stubble that was charming yesterday morning has grown past attractively manly and into simply scruffy territory. It won’t do for my beautiful husband to look unkempt, especially not on our wedding night.
“You need a shave,” I announce, hopping up with sudden purpose. “Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”
I return with my shaving kit, arranged on a silver tray with the same care I’d use for afternoon tea service. Everything gleaming and perfectly organized. The razor, the brush, the soap, warm water in a porcelain bowl, soft towels folded just so.
Carlo’s face pales dramatically when he sees the centerpiece of my collection. “Is that a cutthroat razor?”
“Of course!” I say proudly, lifting the beautiful instrument for his inspection. “Only the best for my husband. This one belonged to my great-grandfather. Italian steel, perfectly balanced, professionally maintained. It’s a work of art.”
The razor really is magnificent, its ivory handle worn smooth by generations of use, the blade sharp enough to split silk. It’s been in my family for over a century, passed down from father to son as a symbol of masculine tradition. Marco wanted it, but the lock on his safe was rubbish. So now it will serve Carlo, as it should.
Carlo swallows hard, his throat working visibly as he stares at the gleaming blade. “Do you know how to use it?”
“Of course I do, silly,” I laugh, beginning to lather the shaving soap in the warm water with practiced circular motions.
The soap creates a rich, creamy lather that smells of sandalwood and bergamot. I test the temperature with my finger to make sure it’s perfect. Warm enough to soften the hair, but not so hot as to be uncomfortable.
“I rarely need to shave myself,” I continue conversationally. “My genetics on my mother’s side blessed me with very little body hair. I tend to use hair removal cream for what little I do have. But I’ve watched several YouTube videos on the proper technique.”
His eyes go wide with alarm, panic creeping back into his expression. “Ginni! Use a safety razor!”
I pause, giving him a genuinely wounded look. “But that’s not classy. This is so much more elegant, more traditional. The way gentlemen have been shaved for centuries by their valets, their wives. It’s romantic.”
