Page 103 of The Kingpin’s Bride

“And if you refuse the photograph?”

Camilla’s pencil hovered. She had heard enough of that tone in two years to know when the room had changed temperature, even if she didn’t have the words for why.

“Is the mad bird allowed to bite?” she asked, not looking up.

“Yes,” I said. She nodded like that settled law and went back to the page.

Morena adjusted the boys without waking them. The woman who had stood naked under lights while men put numbers on her body now held two heirs and a six-year-old.

I crossed to the sofa. Camilla made space without being told, sketchbook hugged to her chest, and I sat on the edge so I wouldn’t wake the twins. Morena turned her face up. I kissed her and she tasted perfect like always.

After putting the kids to bed, in the hall, Morena stopped me with two fingers in my belt. I walked her back into our room with the limp I no longer apologized for.

I put her on the bed. Skirt up. Then I put my mouth between her legs because the day had been long and she was the only thing in it I wanted.

She was already wet, still capable of making my pulse trip. I dragged the flat of my tongue through her once, slow, tasting her, then again, firmer, until her breath caught and her fingers found my hair.

Her thighs tried to close. I kept them open with one hand. The other hand slid up under the silk of her blouse, over the warm skin of her stomach, higher, until I found the weight of her breast and the tight peak of her nipple. I rolled it between my fingers while I licked her, slow then faster, circling her clit, sucking it between my lips when her hips started to lift.

I worked her until she was shaking. Until the expensive sheets bunched under her fists. Until she came with a broken, quiet sound she still tried to swallow even now.

I didn’t stop. I licked her through it, slower, gentler, then not gentle at all, until the second wave hit her harder and her thighs trembled against my shoulders.

I stood between her spread knees, still fully dressed except for the smear of her on my mouth. Cufflinks catching the low light. The same gold crowns she had wiped clean for me an hour ago. I unfastened my belt with one hand. The other stayed on her inner thigh, thumb stroking the wetness I had left there.

Those pretty blue eyes threatened to destroy me. And the smile, flushed cheeks, diamond flashing as she pushed herself up on her elbows. The mother of my sons.

I freed myself. Hard, heavy, already wet at the tip from watching her come on my tongue. I dragged the head through her folds, coating myself, then pushed in with one long, controlled thrust that made her gasp and made my own breath leave me.

Tight. Hot. Perfect.

I stayed buried for a moment, forehead dropping to hers. Then I moved.

Deep. Steady. The kind of rhythm that said I had all night and I intended to use it. Her skirt was still rucked around her waist. My shirt still on. Cufflinks cold against her skin when I braced a hand beside her head. I fucked her like that because the contrast made her wetter and because I liked the way she looked on silk while I was still clothed.

“Harder,” my wife whispered. “Oh my God, more.”

I gave it to her.

One of her legs hooked over my hip. I reached down, hooked the other higher, opened her wider, and drove in until the sound of skin and the wet slide of it filled the room. Her nails found my back through the shirt. I kissed her, tasting her own slick on my tongue, and she kissed me back like she was starving for it.

When I felt her start to tighten again I slipped a hand between us and rubbed her clit in tight circles, matching the thrust of my hips.

I didn’t last much longer.

I buried myself to the hilt, held her there, and came with a low sound against her throat, pulsing deep.

Hours later, he bedroom was dark. The boys had been down for hours. Camilla’s door was closed. The penthouse held that particular quiet that only arrived after midnight.

Morena was tucked against my chest, one leg thrown over mine, my shirt rucked up around her hips from how long we had been talking. My hand was in her hair.

We had started with Salvatore’s rattles and ended somewhere neither of us had planned to go. I felt her breathing change before I spoke. She already knew I was about to say something I did not say in daylight. “My mother’s name was Elena.”

Her head lifted. In the dark her blue eyes found mine.

“She was murdered by my father. Lorenzo. He made my sisters and me watch his abuse. When it was over we were orphans in every way that mattered.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.