Page 18 of The New Godfather

Then he turns around, opens the door, and walks away. I am mesmerized by the towering, imposing view of him as he retreats down the hall—broad shoulders rolling under the suit jacket, confident stride that eats up the carpet, every inch the man who just claimed my future with a pen. After he turns the corner and disappears from sight, I shut the door and nearly collapse against it. What just happened? I am stunned by him, by the danger I can sense beneath that calm surface, the promise of control wrapped in restraint.

As I get ready for bed, I can’t stop thinking about him—the marriage, the contract, the way his eyes darkened as he goaded me to push the settlement number of our prenup higher and higher. No man I know would ever do that. Why did he do that? I slide between the fresh sheets, naked, the cotton cool and smooth against my overheated skin. I shut my eyes and try to sleep.

A few minutes later there is a knock.

My heart jumps into my throat. I sit up, sheets pooling around my waist, nipples tightening in the cool air. Who would knock at this hour? Only one person. I slip out of bed, grab the silk robe from the floor, tie it loosely around my naked body, and pad barefoot to the door.

I open it.

It is him.

I am surprised to see him there, but before I can say a word he steps inside, cups my face in both hands, and kisses me.

I completely melt.

His mouth is hot and demanding, tongue sliding between my lips, branding and claiming them for his own. I taste whiskey and him—dark, rich, addictive. My knees buckle, but his arm bands around my waist, pulling me flush against his body. The silk of my robe is the only thing between us, and I can feel every hard inch of him pressing into my belly. He swallows the low, desperate moan that escapes me.

Without breaking the kiss, he moves me backwards toward the bed. His hands roam, one sliding up to fist in my hair, the other gripping my ass and squeezing hard enough to bruise. The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I fall back, pulling him with me. He comes down over me, heavy and perfect, the weight of him pinning me exactly into the bed. His mouth leaves mine only to trail hot, open kisses down my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point until I arch and gasp.

Then he rips the nightgown from my body with one sharp tug. The sound of tearing silk fills the room—loud, violent, erotic. Cool air rushes over my bare skin as the fabric falls away in shreds. I’m completely naked beneath him now, breasts heaving, nipples tight and aching. His eyes darken to almost black as he looks at me, drinking in every inch like he’s starving.

I try to push at his chest—my hands pressing against the hard muscle there—but I cannot. I do not want to. My fingers curl into his shirt instead, pulling him closer.

He frees his cock with one impatient hand. It springs out thick, heavy, breathtaking. I stare in wonder at the veined shaft. It is flushed and the head is already glistening with pre-cum. The sight of it makes my mouth water and my core clench with raw need.

He doesn’t wait. He spreads my thighs wide with his knees, lines himself up, and enters me in one deep, relentless thrust. I cry out, the stretch burning so good. He fills me completely, bottoming out with a wet slap of skin on skin that echoes in the quiet room. My back arches off the bed, nails digging into his shoulders as he starts to move.

I see stars.

He fucks me hard—deep, punishing strokes that slam his hips against mine over and over. I writhe beneath him, legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his back as he drives into me again and again. Every thrust drags pleasure through my body like fire, hitting that perfect spot inside me until I’m sobbing with it.

The bed rocks violently, headboard banging against the wall in a rhythmic thud-thud-thud that matches the slap of his hips against my skin. My breasts bounce with every powerful thrust, his shirt grazing my nipple in a sweet torture. Sweat slicks our skin, making every slide slicker, hotter. His hands grip my hips hard, and he tilts me up so he can go deeper, harder. I feel him everywhere—inside me, over me, consuming me. My orgasm builds fast and brutal, coiling tighter and tighter until it snaps.

I come so hard I scream, body convulsing around his cock, the walls of my pussy clenching and fluttering as wave after wave rips through me. Tears slip down my cheeks from the intensity. He keeps fucking me through it, hips snapping faster now, chasing his own release. His mouth crashes back to mine, swallowing every cry, tongue thrusting in time with his cock. I gasp into his mouth as another orgasm crashes over me, body arching off the bed, nails raking down his back through his shirt.

He groans my name against my lips—low, rough, broken—and thrusts once more, burying himself deep as he comes, pulsing hot and thick inside me. The sensation tips me over again, another shuddering climax that leaves me trembling and boneless beneath him.

Then I wake up with a jolt.

It is morning. The day of my wedding.

He didn’t come back. It was only a dream, but it was so intense and vivid. It felt so freaking real. Hell, I can still feel the pleasure coursing through my body, the ghost of his hands gripping my hips, and the echo of that intense release still pulsing through my core. My nightgown is twisted around my thighs, damp with sweat, and my pulse is racing like I just ran miles.

I press my face into the pillow, breathing hard, ragged, trying to push it away. But the heat and the want linger, deep and dangerous, coiling tighter with every breath I take.

Today I marry him.

And I am already terrified of how much I crave him.

I roll onto my back, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. My skin is sticky, and my nipples are hard, aching points, and when I shift, the friction sends a fresh spark straight to my clit. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to force the sensation away, but it only makes it worse.

This isn’t me. Or at least it isn’t the me I’ve spent years pretending to be—the cool, untouchable woman who never lets anyone see her break. But last night’s dream cracked something open inside me, and now I can’t close it. I imagine him today—standing at the altar in a dark suit, eyes locked on mine as he says the vows that will make me his. I imagine his hands on me after the ceremony, slow and deliberate, peeling away every layer until there’s nothing left between us. I imagine the way he’ll look when he finally sinks into me, the way his control will finally snap.

A whimper escapes me before I can stop it. My hand drifts down my stomach again, fingers trembling as they brush the sensitive skin just above my mound. I stop myself at the last second, clenching my fist instead. No. Not now. Not when the real thing is only hours away.

But the thought of waiting—of standing beside him in that little church, saying yes in front of witnesses while this fire burns under my skin—makes me want to scream.

I roll over again, press my thighs together hard, and bury my face in the pillow. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to force calm, force anything that isn’t this relentless, throbbing need.