Page 3

Romeo's jaw tightens with an audible snap. He catches both of my wrists in one massive fist, pinning them against his chest, pinning me still. His face dips down until his lips hover just above mine.

"You. Are. Mine, Iris," he warns, low enough that the hair on my arms stands up. "I have never taken anything from you that you didn't give me willingly. Every night I held you, you reached for me. You cuddled into my chest. You whispered into my neck. I waited three fucking years to touch your sweet body until last night, when you begged me to make you come on those sheets."

"I thought it was a dream!" I shout in anger even as my pussy throbs.

"Well, you're awake now, Kitten," he says against my lips, his grip tightening until I feel his cock hard against my belly. "And you are in my house, on my island, with my ring waiting on the nightstand inside. You can scream. You can fight. You can steal a knife from my kitchen and try to use it. You still will not leave this side of the ocean without me."

I stare at the dark shape of his face through scarlet silk. My heart slams. I am terrified of him, but at the same time, I am not. I'm liquid heat from the way he holds me like I already belong in his bed.

He thinks he has me trapped. He thinks a marble house and a gallery I can barely see will make me curl up at his feet like Sofia and say thank you.

He has no idea what he has started.

I lean forward, closing the microscopic gap between our mouths until my lips brush against his rough five o'clock shadow, feeling him suck in a sharp, startled breath at my sudden stillness.

"Then keep your eyes open, husband," I whisper against the corner of his mouth. "First chance I get, I am going to burn this pretty cage to the fucking ground."

Romeo's mouth parts with a groan. Not anger. A wicked smile. The outline of his mouth parting into a smile flashes in the Sicilian light.

"I'm counting on it, Wife."

ONE

ROMEO

She thinks she can threaten me with fire. My wife forgets I was born in fire.

I have been shot at, buried in debt, and raised by a man who thought love was a belt and a lesson. None of that prepared me for her mouth on a Sicilian terrace, promising to burn my house down while her legs were still locked around my waist. She is furious and she is shaking and she is mine on paper, and the Don in me wants to lock every door. The rest of me, the part that sat in the dark for three years and listened to her breathe, just wants to keep carrying her until she stops looking for a cliff.

Her words still burn against my mouth, sharp and sweet. Her pulse slams against my chest as I carry her across the patio. She weighs almost nothing; the feeling of her in my arms sends a thrill through me. She's perfect to move however I see fit. Her legs stay locked around my hips, her fists twisted in my linen shirt.

She shakes with that Irish rage that runs through her veins and never fails to get my cock hard. Her jaw is locked so tight the skin looks bloodless in the sun. Under the scarlet ribbon, the silver web of scar tissue is flushed pink.

God, she is beautiful when she is pissed off.

Most people see six-foot-four, the ink on my neck, and the black in my eyes, and they drop. Men have pissed themselves because I tilted my head and raised an eyebrow. Not Iris. Not my stubborn, foul-mouthed little rose. She stands in front of the Don of the Sicilian mafia, blind to the room, and tells me she is going to murder me and burn my empire down.

It makes my cock ache to push inside her velvety, hot pussy. I've been hard since I carried her into my bed last night, and it hasn't gone away. I need to fuck her again.

"Put me down, Romeo. I swear to God, put me on my feet or I will bite your face off," she snarls, wiggling against my torso in an attempt to slide down.

"Try it, Kitten," I rumble, tightening my arm around her waist until her soft breasts are crushed flat against my ribs. "See how fast I flip you over my shoulder and put my hand to that pretty ass. You're already sore from last night. You want to spend the afternoon unable to sit?"

Her cheeks flare with a violent, delicious crimson. She stops kicking, but her fingers dig harder into my chest, her fingernails piercing through the thin linen until they bite into my flesh. My eyes roll in pleasure at her anger and the pain she inflicts with those claws of hers.

My pretty, violent kitten.

"You're an arrogant, sadistic pig," she grits out through her teeth.

"I'm your husband," I correct her calmly, kicking the heavy glass terrace doors open with the toe of my Italian leather shoe.

The villa's cool, conditioned air washes over us, carrying the scent of white lilies, fresh citrus, and the lemon trees lining the courtyard. Behind us, Sofia trots inside with a soft click of her nails on the polished white marble, giving a low bark of approval as the heavy glass doors swing shut on their hinges.

I carry Iris through the sunlit corridor, past the high bulletproof windows I had put in for her. Every corner of this estate was built for her. No dark corners. No sharp edges. No surprise steps. I spent two years buying the cliffside and gutting this old palazzo so she could have sun on her skin all day.

I walk straight into the master suite, where the king-size bed still bears the rumpled scarlet silk sheets from our hours together before dawn. The scent of our lovemaking still hangs heavy in the bedroom: pure vanilla, female sweetness, and my own heavy musk.

I lower her onto the edge of the mattress, but before she can scramble away, I drop to both knees between her spread thighs, trapping her hips between my hands.