This is not the same woman who cowered from me not too long ago. This is someone new—someone born from the forge of our strange circumstances.
“With pleasure,” I growl, spinning her around and reaching for the first tiny button at her spine.
I work each tiny button of Alina’s wedding dress with deliberate slowness, savoring the gradual revelation of her skin. Each new inch exposed is a victory, a treasure claimed, a territory conquered.
The dress has what feels like a hundred buttons running down her spine, each one a test of my patience. I could rip the fabric apart with my bare hands—tear it from her body in seconds—but that’s not what this moment deserves.
So I restrain the animal clawing inside me, focusing instead on the delicate task of unwrapping my bride properly. As each button comes undone, I press my lips to the newly exposed flesh, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling the shiver that runs through her with each touch.
“Raffaele,” she whispers, my name a prayer on her lips.
“Patience, Piccola,” I murmur against her shoulder blade. “I’ve waited too long for this to rush it now.”
Finally, the last button yields, and the dress loosens around her body. With reverent hands, I push the fabric from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. She stands before me in nothing but lace panties, the firelight casting golden shadows across her pale skin.
My breath catches at the sight of her. The curves I’ve touched and tasted over the past weeks are somehow more perfect tonight.
The gentle swell of her hips, the softness of her stomach, the full weight of her breasts—all mine. All mine to claim.
She crosses her arms over her chest, an instinctive attempt to hide that I will not allow.
“Don’t,” I command, gently pulling her arms to her sides. “Never hide from me.”
“I’m not perfect,” she whispers, a vulnerability in her blue eyes.
“You’re perfect to me,” I tell her, meaning every word. I trace the line of freckles across her collarbone with my fingertip, following them down to the swell of her breast. “Every inch of you is exactly as it should be.”
She swallows hard, then reaches for me with trembling hands. “My turn,” she says, reaching for my tie and quickly getting rid of it.
I stand still, allowing her this exploration. While her inexperienced fingers work each button free, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. When she pushes the shirt off my shoulders, her eyes widen at the full sight of my tattooed torso.
“You’re beautiful,” she breathes, trailing her fingertips along the wolf on my ribs, tracing the S.P.Q.R. letters with something like reverence.
I’ve been called many things in my life—dangerous, ruthless, merciless, asshole—but beautiful has never been one of them. Coming from her lips, I almost believe it.
She moves to my belt next, her fingers hesitating only briefly before unfastening it. The whisper of leather sliding through belt loops fills the silence between us. My pants follow, pushed down my legs until I kick them aside.
I stand before her in nothing but black boxer briefs, my erection straining against the fabric.
Her gaze drops to it, her cheeks flushing a delicious pink. “Well, I guess you’re ready,” she laughs nervously.
“We’ll take it slow,” I say, cupping her face in my hands. “Trust me, wife.”
“I do,” she replies, the simplicity of her answer striking me like a physical blow. Trust. Such a small word for such an enormous gift. One I intend to savor all night long.
Her nipples pebble in the cool air, rosy peaks begging for my mouth. I drop to my knees before her, my face level with her stomach, and press a kiss just below her navel as I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties.
Slowly, I drag them down her legs, revealing the neat triangle of red curls between her thighs. She steps out of the lace, now completely bare before me. I drink in the sight of her—my wife, my bride, my possession, my treasure.
All. Fucking. Mine.
Rising to my feet, I shed my boxer briefs in one smooth motion, watching her eyes widen as she takes in my hard dick.
“We’ll go slow,” I promise again, guiding her down to the plush rug before the fire. The flames cast her skin in amber light as she lies back, her red hair fanning out beneath her like spilled wine.
“I’m scared,” she confesses, her voice small but steady. “But I want you. I want you to be myfirst.Myonly.”
My only.
