“I’m not going to force you,” I say, dropping my hand. “If you want to sleep in the guest suite, if you want time to adjust to this situation, I’ll give you that. I need you to understand something first.”
“What?”
“This marriage is real. Legal and binding. You’re mine now in ways that matter—to the Bratva, to the Volkovs, to everyone watching. That means certain expectations. Appearances we’ll need to maintain.” I step back, giving her space. “What happens between us in private? That’s your choice. I won’t take what you don’t give freely.”
Janice stares at me like she’s trying to reconcile my words with everything she knows about who I am.
“Why?” she asks finally. “Why give me any choice at all?”
“Taking you against your will would make me no better than the men who tried to kidnap you. Because I want you willing, not broken.”
The silence stretches.
Then Janice moves.
She closes the distance I’d created, rising on her toes, and kisses me.
It’s not gentle. Not tentative. It’s fury and want and four years of unresolved tension crashing together all at once.
I freeze for half a second—shocked by her initiative, by the heat in the way she grabs my shirt and pulls me closer. Thentraining and restraint shatter, and I’m kissing her back with everything I’ve denied myself for four years.
My hands find her waist, pulling her flush against me. She’s all soft curves and heat, the silk robe doing nothing to hide how perfectly her body fits against mine. She tastes like anger and desire and something I don’t have words for.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, she looks as surprised as I feel.
“Why did you do that?” I ask.
“I’m tired of being afraid. Tired of pretending I don’t remember how this felt.” Her hands are still fisted in my shirt. “I hate you and want you and can’t seem to make those feelings make sense.”
“They don’t have to make sense.”
“Everything has to make sense. That’s how the world works.”
She kisses me again, and this time I take control. Angle her head where I want it, deepen the kiss until she’s making small sounds against my mouth. My hands slide down her sides, mapping curves I’ve imagined touching for four years.
The robe’s tie comes loose easily. I pause, giving her a chance to stop this, to change her mind.
She doesn’t.
The silk falls open, revealing soft skin and the kind of body that belongs in art, not fashion magazines. Full breasts, generous hips, the soft curve of her stomach that she’d been so self-conscious about years ago.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, because she needs to hear it. Because it’s true.
Color rises in her cheeks. “You’re good at this. The pretty words.”
“I’m not being pretty. I’m being honest.” I trace the curve of her waist, watching her shiver.
Janice searches my face like she’s looking for deception.
Whatever she sees must satisfy her, because she reaches for my shirt, working the buttons with trembling fingers.
The rest of our clothes disappear in a tangle of hands and heat and urgency. I take my time with her robe, sliding the silk down her shoulders, revealing inch by inch of skin I’ve been imagining touching since the moment she walked back into my life.
When she’s finally bare beneath me, I have to stop and just look. The generous curve of her breasts, nipples already tight with arousal. The soft swell of her stomach, the flare of her hips, the strong thickness of her thighs. She’s every fantasy I’ve denied myself, real and willing and trembling under my gaze.
“Don’t stare,” she whispers, self-consciousness creeping in.
“I’ll stare at my wife as much as I want.” I lower my mouth to her breast, taking her nipple between my teeth. She gasps, arching into me. “You’re going to let me, because you’re beautiful and I’m done pretending I don’t want to devour every inch of you.”
