I grab her hips, rocking her against my hardness. “Keep moving like that and we’ll miss our flight for sure.”
Instead of surrendering to me, she grins. A mischievous expression I’m still getting used to seeing on her face. I’m even more surprised when she bends down to kiss me. It’s not the hesitant press of lips from weeks ago; it’s confident, demanding, her tongue sliding against mine.
Just as I’m about to flip her onto her back and fuck her again right here on the library floor, she pulls away, taking the blanket with her as she stands.
“Okay then,” she says with mock innocence. “We should get moving.”
I growl at the tease, watching her wrap the blanket around herself like a toga. Her ass peeks out from the bottom as she bends to collect her scattered clothing from last night, giving me a view that makes my mouth water.
“What time is our flight?” she asks, clutching her wedding dress to her chest.
I reach for my pants, fishing out my phone. “Soon,” I tell her, keeping it vague. Since we’re using the private Russo jet, it’s not like we’re in a rush. But I am. The sooner we leave, the sooner we arrive, and I want to be on the island the next time I sink into her cunt.
I fire off a quick text to Ian and Colin.
Me: We’ll be ready in two hours. Make sure everything’s prepared.
Their confirmation that everything is ready comes just as I finish buttoning my tux pants.
“Come on,” I say, standing and pulling Alina against me, blanket and all. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
When we stand just outside the master bedroom, I scoop her up and carry her across the threshold, much to her amusement.
“Put me down, you caveman,” she laughs. “You’ve already carried me more than you need to.”
“But not as much as I want to,” I reply while I set her on her feet.
The oversized shower beckons, and I turn on multiple jets, letting steam fill the space as I unwrap my wife from her makeshift toga.
She steps under the spray with newfound confidence, tilting her head back to wet her hair. Water cascades down her curves, highlighting every dip and swell that I spent hours exploring last night. I join her, grabbing the soap and working it into a lather between my hands.
“Turn around,” I command softly.
She obeys, presenting her back to me as I run soapy hands over her shoulders, down her spine, cupping her ass with both hands before sliding around to her stomach. I wash every inch of her with deliberate care, paying special attention to the tender flesh between her thighs.
When I kneel to wash her legs, I can’t help but notice the faint traces of dried blood on her inner thighs—evidence of her virginity given to me. Pride and possessiveness surge through me as I gently clean the area.
“My turn,” she says when I stand, taking the soap from my hands.
I watch her face as she explores my body with growing confidence, her small hands mapping the tattoos that cover my chest and arms. When she reaches my cock, her touch istentative but curious, washing away the evidence of our coupling from last night.
Part of me hates to see her virginity blood wash away. It was a visible mark of my claim on her, proof that I was the first and only man to have her. But there will be other marks. Other claims.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, glancing up at me through wet lashes.
“You’re mine to stare at.” I capture her mouth in a heated kiss, backing her against the shower wall.
Her hands slide up my chest to my shoulders, her body arching into mine. We could easily fuck right here, right now, but we don’t have time. Instead, I content myself with the press of her wet skin against mine, the slide of her tongue against my own, the promise of what’s to come.
After the shower, I lead her to the closet, selecting clothing for both of us. Comfortable stuff that won’t be annoying for the hours we’ll spend traveling. For me, that means dark jeans and a button-down, foregoing my usual suit. For her, I pick leggings and a tank top with a short-sleeved t-shirt and a cardigan.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing you this casual,” Alina remarks, her fingers tracing the collar of my shirt. “It’s strange.”
“Good strange or bad strange?” I ask, buttoning her cardigan for her, deliberately brushing my knuckles against her breasts.
“Just different.” She bites her lip, watching my hands work. “What should I pack?”
“Nothing,” I tell her, enjoying the confusion that crosses her face. “It’s all taken care of.”
