My bare feet are silent on the stairs.
I’ve waited.
I waited for an hour after I heard Dominic come home. But he didn’t come to bed. He didn’t come upstairs at all.
He’s alone—I’m certain of that much—which means he’s unhurt.
I keep my hand on the railing until I reach the main floor.
I know I’m still naive compared to Aspen—and probably all the women in Dominic’s family. Hell, I googled what is the mafia just weeks ago. But I know enough to know it’s dangerous. And even though my first day here was spent attending a funeral, I don’t think I really understood it.
Tonight, I understood.
I’ve felt sick to my stomach with worry since Dom left me here—alone. And I need to see him. Knowing he’s back isn’t enough. I need to see him.
I feel like I’m doing something wrong as I walk down the dark hallway, but this is my home, too. And I’m not trying to spy. I’m just trying to find my husband.
Light comes from behind the cracked-open door that leads to the gym.
I pause outside it, listening to the rhythmic sound coming from inside.
Placing my palm on the door, I hesitate for only a moment, then push it open.
And catch my breath.
Dominic is in the center of the room, pounding his fists into a large punching bag suspended from the ceiling.
Only half the lights are on, casting shadows across the floor, but it’s the man himself that holds my gaze. Because he’s magnificent.
His suit coat is lying on the floor, as if tossed aside while Dominic strode through the room. And his white shirt is still on but unbuttoned, the open sides moving with him as his body shifts and turns with each punch.
And his body.
Jesus.
His shirt is soaked through with sweat, making the white material transparent over his back and arms, showing me every ripple of muscle. Every inch of inked skin.
And I want him.
I want him so bad that I start across the room.
Dominic is facing away from me, but in front of us is the wall of windows, and with the darkness outside and lights on inside, it’s become a mirror, alerting Dom to my approach.
He drops his arms to his sides while his chest heaves.
He doesn’t turn to face me, just stares at my reflection in the glass.
My yellow dress swishes with my steps, my loose hair lying across my shoulders.
And I don’t say anything.
I just circle around the punching bag until I’m standing in front of him.
He’s quiet. Just breathing heavily. But I can see it in my husband’s eyes. He’s tired. And angry.
And I want to give him something.
I step closer and press my hands to his body, parting his already open shirt so I can take in his strong chest, his muscular stomach.
I slide my hands lower.
When I reach his belt, Dom’s hands move, grasping my wrists.
And that’s when I see the blood.
It’s his own. His own split knuckles from slamming his bare fists into tough leather over and over again for an hour.
And my heart clenches for him.
This man carries the weight of so many people on his back.
I know I can never carry that burden for him. But maybe I can help ease it.
With my mouth.
He doesn’t remove his hands, but he doesn’t stop me either as I undo his belt.
And he doesn’t stop me when I unbutton his pants or when I pull the zipper down.
And he lets go of my wrists when I sink to my knees, allowing me to drag his pants and boxers down with me.
My fingers graze over his newest tattoo in the process, and I stare at the base of his already swollen cock. Which is still growing.
I wet my lips, and his length bobs in reaction.
He’s sweaty. Still breathing heavily. His dick is inches from my face. And I’m so turned on I’m going to start dripping onto the floor.
I pull at the material pooling around Dominic’s bare feet, and he lifts one foot, then the other, so I can push it away.
Looking down at me, Dominic peels his shirt off his shoulders, tossing that aside as well.
Neck to ankles, his tattoos make him look like a mythical soldier. A man made solely for battle. A protector.
A man made for me.
I shift up onto my knees so my mouth is level with his hips. But before I close the distance between us, I reach down and untie my dress, unwrapping the sunshine material until it’s hanging open at my sides. Exposing my front to Dominic and the fact that I have nothing on underneath.
His next exhale is audible. And before he can stop me, or decide he wants something else, I lean forward and wrap my lips around the head of his cock.
We both moan.
And wetness floods my center.
I grab the base of his dick at the same moment he digs his hands into my hair.
His hold is tight, and it’s like he’s trying to stop me from taking him deeper. But I want this. I want to do this for him.
I stick my tongue out, licking the underside of his length, tasting as much as I can as I lean against his hold.
I need more.
Dominic lets out another guttural groan, but instead of pulling my head back, he drags me forward, letting me—making me—take him deeper.
I suck. And lick. And make sounds as I swallow as much of him as I can.
His tip bumps against the back of my throat, and my body reacts, my muscles contracting in revolt.
But instead of feeling sick over gagging on his cock, I feel… sexy.
Proud that I’m trying.
His hold on my hair loosens, letting me pull away and pick my own pace.
I try again, my hand still on the base of his cock, holding him steady as I slide my lips down his smooth, thick dick.
I blink when he hits that spot again. Tears form as a bodily reaction, nothing else.
And I stare at his vow, stare at his promise, as I take him just a tiny bit deeper.
My nipples are aching to be touched. And my pussy is begging to be filled. But right now, with Dominic’s cock in my mouth, I feel more settled than I have in a long time.
He’s mine.
Til Death.
And I’m his.
I pull back, sucking on his tip, swallowing the beads of precum that leak from his cock and inhaling the scent of his cologne mixed with his sweat.
I want this life.
My free hand reaches up to cup his heavy balls, and I lean in, taking him to the back of my throat and pushing through—just another inch.
