Everything she wants, everything she dreams of—the bakery, motherhood—I can give her. And in return, all I need is her surrender. Her trust. Her body.
Her love.
The last thought catches me off guard, slipping through my defenses as consciousness fades. I push it away, burying it deep where it can’t disturb me. This marriage isn’t about emotions.
It’s about solving problems, not creating new ones.
Chapter 19
Alina
Warmth envelops me as consciousness slowly returns. Not justanywarmth—his.
Raffaele’s arm is a heavy weight across my waist, his chest pressed firmly against my back, his breath fanning the nape of my neck in steady puffs. Four nights of sleeping like this, and my body still hasn’t adjusted to the way he wraps himself around me.
But what makes my breath catch this morning isn’t his possessive grip—it’s the unmistakable hardness pressing against my backside.
My body responds before my mind catches up, a rush of heat pooling low in my belly. I squeeze my thighs together, trying to ease the sudden ache building between them.
Unbidden, my mind wanders to places it shouldn’t. What would it feel like if there were no barriers between us? If I were to turn around and press myself against him, slide my hand down his stomach and wrap my fingers around…
“Good morning, Piccola,” Raffaele’s voice, rough with sleep, rumbles against my ear. His arm tightens, pulling me impossibly closer.
“M-morning,” I stammer, my cheeks burning as if he can somehow read my thoughts.
His hips shift, a subtle movement pressing his erection firmer against me. It’s deliberate, I know it is. He’s making sure I feel exactly what I do to him. “Sleep well?”
“Yes,” I manage, my voice steadier than I expected.
“Mhmm.” His thumb traces lazy circles on my stomach where my—his—t-shirt has ridden up during the night.
Without thinking, I suck my stomach in. I don’t even realize I’ve done it until he pinches the flesh. “Ouch!” I yelp.
“Stop doing that,” he growls.
Since my first night in his arms, he’s made a point of touching my stomach with his hands, his lips, even his tongue and teeth. It’s… confusing. On the one hand, it makes electricity zap through me. But on the other, it makes me feel more vulnerable than when he had his mouth on my… down there.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “It’s a habit. I’m not doing it on purpose, you know.”
Soothing the pinch with his palm, he rasps. “Turn around.”
It’s not a request. With Raffaele, it never is.
Four days of this routine, and I know the drill. Still, my heart hammers against my ribs as I shift in his arms until we’re face to face, my eyes level with the dark stubble covering his jaw.
Raffaele looks down at me, his green eyes heavy-lidded but alert. Without waiting for me to adjust, he dips his head andcaptures my lips with his. This is another part of our morning ritual—a kiss to start the day.
Uncaring about morning breath, his tongue traces the seam of my lips, demanding entry that I readily grant. The taste of him floods my senses as his hand slides up my back, fingers tangling in my hair to angle my head exactly how he wants it.
I’m helpless against the wave of sensation that crashes through me. My hands move of their own accord; one resting on his chest, the other sliding up to touch the rough stubble on his jaw. The contrast of textures—soft lips, scratchy beard, silky hair—overwhelms me.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes have darkened to forest green. “That’s better,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my lower lip, now swollen from his attention. “Now I can start my day.”
He rolls away from me, the sudden absence of his heat leaving me shivering despite the warmth of the room. I watch as he slides out of bed, the muscles in his back flexing as he stretches his arms overhead.
The tattoos that cover his skin shift and ripple with the movement, like shadows dancing across his flesh.
“I’m going to shower,” he says over his shoulder.
