Leaning forward, I grasp her calf firmly in both hands, steadying her as I lower my mouth to her thigh. I maintain eye contact as I capture the edge of the garter between my teeth, feeling the slight give of the elastic and the warmth of her skin.
Her pupils dilate further, her lips parting on a silent gasp as I begin to drag the garter downward.
The room around us fades away; everything beyond this moment of possession disappears. There’s only Alina, only her ragged breathing and the flush spreading across her chest, only the taste of lace and the scent of her arousal as I work the garter down over her knee.
When I finally pull it free, still holding it between my teeth, the room erupts in cheers and whistles. I rise slowly to my feet, the garter dangling from my mouth like a prize. Reaching up, I take it in my hand, twirling it around my finger with a smirk that makes Alina’s blush deepen.
“Toss it, Rafe,” Enzo calls out, but I shake my head.
“This one’s mine to keep,” I reply, tucking it into the pocket of my tux. A souvenir of this night—though not nearly as precious as what awaits me later.
I extend my hand to help Alina stand, noting how her legs wobble slightly. Leaning close, I whisper in her ear, “Wet for me already, Mrs. Brewer-Russo?”
Her sharp intake of breath is all the answer I need. She turns her face toward mine, her eyes dark with need, her voice barely above a whisper as she commands, “Take me somewhere we can finally be alone, Raffaele.”
Those words send a jolt of pure lust straight to my dick. I nod once. Then I scoop her up with one arm around her back and the other under her knees.
“Feel free to continue celebrating, but mywifeand I will be retiring for the evening,” I say. Even though I’m speaking to the room, it’s Alina I’m looking at.
Matteo’s wolf whistle and Raven’s delighted giggle follow us as I carry Alina from the room and toward the grand staircase that leads to the master bedroom. But she surprises me by shaking her head.
“Not there,” she says, her eyes meeting mine with unexpected certainty.
“No?” I arch an eyebrow, curious about what she has in mind.
“The library,” she tells me, her voice soft but sure. “Where it all began. Where you taught me to play chess. Where you first made me feel…”
She doesn’t finish the thought, but she doesn’t need to. I understand perfectly. The library is where I began to collect far more than a debt.
Chapter 32
Raffaele
Icarry Alina through the dimly lit hallways of my mansion, her body cradled against my chest, the scent of her perfume mingling with the vanilla sweetness of cake still on her breath.
One of her arms is looped around my neck, trusting me completely with her weight. I fucking love that she isn’t making excuses or trying to get me to put her down. Not that I would. But she’s come a long way, and I couldn’t be prouder.
The thought stirs something primal in my chest—this urge to protect, to possess, to cherish. I push the feeling aside as I approach the library door, kicking it open with more force than necessary.
Inside, the fire roars in the hearth, casting long shadows across the bookshelves and the chessboard set perfectly on the table where we last left it.
This room holds the history of us. Every match we’ve played, every piece captured, every strategy revealed. It was here that I first saw beyond Alina’s fear to the steel beneath, here that I watched her transform from a trembling captive to a woman who would meet my gaze without flinching.
The memory of her determination sends heat coursing through me.
I move toward the couch, intending to lay her down, to finally claim what I’ve been denied for too long. But she places her hand against my chest, halting me with a touch so light it shouldn’t have any power.
“Not yet,” she whispers, blue eyes gleaming in the firelight.
“Alina,” I growl, her name a warning. My patience has limits, and I’ve been pushed to the edge watching her all evening in that dress, knowing what lies beneath, what awaits me.
“Please,” she adds, and just like that, my resistance crumbles. I set her on her feet.
To my surprise, she lowers herself to the thick rug before the fire, tucking her legs beneath her, careful to arrange her dress modestly.
She gestures to the chessboard. “Bring it here,” she says. “I want to play.”
“Play?” I arch an eyebrow, disbelief warring with amusement. “It’s our wedding night, Mogliettina.”
