There’s no rush, no desperation despite the tension that’s been coiling between us. He takes his time, savouring, learning me, tasting me, his low groans vibrating against my skin in a way that makes my thighs tremble.
“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he breathes against me, and the profanity sounds like a prayer in his accent.
His hands grip my hips, holding me steady as he intensifies the pressure, driving me higher with each deliberate movement.
I’m falling apart, actually coming undone, my breath fragmenting into gasps and his name, over and over.
I yelp as he snags my waist, driving me higher until I’m fully situated on the island, then he lays me flat, wedges both shoulders beneath my legs.
My husband feasts on me with the ravenous devastation of a lion, and I…I can do nothing but gasp and moan and beg him not to stop.
I barely last a handful of seconds longer than the last time before I finally break.
With a muted scream, my orgasm crashes through me like a wave, and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease up, just keeps going until I’m shaking, until I’m begging him for mercy.
He pulls back slightly, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh as I come down, his breathing as ragged as mine.
When he rises, his eyes are dark and satisfied and still hungry.
I feel the force of his erection, right there against my melting core as he kisses me, lustily inviting me to taste my release and my surrender.
When I gasp in shock at the sweet, decadent taste, he uses the opportunity to delve his tongue between my lips, to tangle hot and urgently with mine for a full minute before he withdraws.
I’m trembling and breathless and furious with myself for how completely he still owns my body as he straightens my dress with almost ceremonial care.
“That,” he says calmly, “is what you’re wearing tomorrow night. I love the idea of recalling you like this as you play hostess to our guests.”
I frown, forcing my brain to track because I know I’ve missed something vital. Or maybe something I’m hearing for the first time? “Guests? What are you talking about?”
“We’re hosting a dinner party. Our first as a married couple. The staff are taking care of everything but feel free to get involved with the planning if it pleases you.”
I shake my head, scoffing weakly. Until Irealisehe’s not smiling. “You’re joking. Aren’t you?”
He brushes a light kiss over my lips, then straightens. Curls his fingers through his hair to straighten strands I dishevelled during my ride to nirvana. “No,ragazza. I never joke about timing.”
I scramble upright, missing a few vital lungfuls of air when he brazenly adjusts his engorged shaft.
Then he hands me a tablet.
There’s a guest list made up of thirty-five names, each with a little note of food preference attached to their names.
My eyes frantically skim, widening when I catch names I’ve seen on TV and in news headlines.
Then I snag on one in particular near the top, stare until my vision burns.
Salvatore Bellandi, then directly beneath it…Isabella Bellandi.
My breath leaves me in a rush.
“You’ve invited the man who wants to kill me to your house?” I whisper. Not to mention the woman you were supposed to marry. The woman I googled the first chance I got then wishedI hadn’t because she was exactly as I imagined her. A fucking bombshell.
He corrects me smoothly. “To our house, baby. And sì. I have.”
My head spins. “That’s not strategy. That’s insanity.”
“No,” Giovanni says evenly. “That’s how things are done. It’s unavoidable, and the sooner we get it out of the way, the better.”
“And you didn’t think to run this by me first?”
