The door opened and Angelina emerged, and I forgot how to breathe all over again. She'd changed into her reception dress, a sleek white number that hugged every curve and ended mid-thigh, showing off legs that had me wanting to trail them with my tongue. Her hair was down now, falling in waves over her shoulders. Her pearl white nails drew my attention when she reached for me. I remembered the last time she had them and how they looked wrapped around my dick.
Yeah… I didn’t know if an hour was the timeframe. It was looking more like fifteen minutes max.
"Ready?" she asked, her voice breathless, and urging me to say say fuck the reception.
"No." I pulled her close, keeping it appropriate but letting her feel exactly how not ready I was. "But let's do this anyway."
Gianna led us to the reception hall as if we needed a chaperone. It was a ballroom in the same venue, transformed into a continued experience from the wedding. More flowers, more candles, tables draped in ivory and burgundy, a dance floor that gleamed under chandeliers. And too many fucking people. At least two hundred of them.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the DJ announced, "for the first time as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Desmond Moretti!"
The room erupted in applause as we entered. I kept Angelina's hand firmly in mine, leading her to the head table while people cheered and whistled. My brothers were the loudest. Marco standing on his chair, my youngest brother Nico wolf-whistling until my mother shot him a look. But I was scanning the crowd for one person.
Vincent DeLuca sat at his table, not close enough to be honored, not far enough away to be an obvious snub. Strategic placement that Angelina had insisted on.
"I want him to see everything," she'd said. "I want him to watch and know exactly what it means for him."
Our eyes met across the room, and I saw the moment it truly hit him. His niece was untouchable now. Protected by a name that commanded respect and fear in equal measure. Any move he made against her was a move against the Moretti family. And that would be suicide. I smiled at him. Cold. Promising. I pulled Angelina into my arms and held her as everybody continued their applause. She was busy blushing while I silently told her uncle to go fuck himself. I held her in my arms, that were wrapped around her protectively, and dared him to try something. I truly wanted him to. He looked away first.
That pissed me off further, since I’d promised Angelina that I wouldn’t touch him unless he made the first move. I really wanted him to do something stupid so I’d have a reason to bash in his fucking face. But a promise to her was unbreakable.
"First dance," Gianna hissed, shoving us toward the dance floor.
The DJ put on our song, "At Last" by Etta James, because Angelina had strong opinions about music, lyrics, and having a soundtrack for our wedding. I pulled my wife into my arms and we slow danced. She sang every lyric as we did. And when it came to an end, she told the DJ to play it again. I laughed and let her have her moment.
"One hour," I murmured as we swayed together. "Then I'm taking you home and not letting you leave the bed until you’re completely satisfied."
"We have a flight to Santorini tomorrow afternoon." she reminded me.
"Then I'll let you leave the bed long enough to get to the airport." I spun her, bringing her back flush against me. "But on that plane, in that private cabin I booked, all bets are off."
She shivered. "You're making it very hard to focus on dancing and my favorite song."
"Good." I dipped her, watching her eyes widen. "I want you distracted and desperate and thinking about nothing but me inside you."
"Dez," Her voice was strained. "We're in public."
"I know. And you're going to smile, dance, and be the perfect bride. But the whole time, you're going to remember how wet you were when I touched you in that hallway. How close we were to fucking against that wall. How badly you wanted me inside you."
Her nails dug into my shoulder. "You're evil."
"You love it."
"I love you," she corrected.
The song ended and people applauded. We were immediately swarmed, family members wanting congratulations photos, friends offering toasts, business associates making sure they were seen acknowledging the union.
I shook hands, smiled, andplayed the gracious groom while internally counting down the minutes. Fifty-two. Fifty-one. My father approached, pulling me aside while my mother monopolized Angelina with wedding advice.
"You did well," Ivan, my father, said simply. "She's strong. Smart. She'll be good for the family."
"She's good for me," I corrected.
"Same thing." He clapped my shoulder. "The DeLuca situation. You're handling it next week? I still need to call Beni and give him a heads up. If the bastard turns up dead, I don’t want a war with him. We’re friends, and I won’t take advantage of that by not telling him beforehand."
"Good. Do it clean. No mess. We don't need the Vitales getting ideas either." He paused. "But make it clear that touching your wife has consequences. Understood?"
"Understood."
