The priest is saying something, but I can’t hear a word. My pulse is loud inside my ears, a hard and steady drum, and a vein in Cleo’s neck ticks to the same damn beat.
An image of my teeth marks framing that vein flashes in front of my eyes.
This ceremony will take a half hour. I asked the priest as soon as her silhouette appeared at the end of the aisle. I wanted to know how long I’d have to wait to taste that luscious fucking mouth.
His answer irritated me.
Then I became irritated at my irritation.
I’m a patient man. I’m good at waiting. At biding my time.
A half hour is nothing. And yet it feels too long.
Too. Fucking. Long. Especially when my bride looks like this.
Cleo’s copper curls are pulled back from her face with two small braids. The rest of it cascades down her back. My grandmother’s jewels glitter around her neck and dangle from her ears.
She thinks she chose those diamonds, but really, they chose her. If she didn’t have the body or the character to wear them, they would have looked ridiculous on her. It takes a certain kind of woman to pull off wearing fifty fucking carats.
She does it effortlessly, like she was born to be dripping in diamonds and gold. My Aunt Maria tried to give me an earful about letting Cleo wear the prized family jewels, but I told her that if anyone is worthy of wearing them, it’s my future wife.
Her skin glows in the light streaming through the stained glass of the church. And her lips have never looked more inviting.
The things I want to do to this woman. I can’t fucking wait to exhaust that tight body, to push her to her limits, to make her come until she’s no more than a whimpering puddle on my bed.
A jolt runs through me. Fuck, if I let myself go down that train of thought, I’ll get a boner in front of the entire church. I’m already halfway there just from looking at her.
The priest drones on and on. How much longer? Impatience pulses at my temples.
I’ve seen how she gets under your skin.
If only Nero knew the direction of my thoughts, he’d laugh at me. Fuck, this is ridiculous. I need to get a grip. I take a slow, deep breath.
Cleo chooses that moment to peer at me from under her lashes and bite on the corner of her lip. I tug at my collar, suddenly too hot. My watch says it’s only been five minutes.
That’s when I decide, fuck it. “Skip to the end,” I order the priest.
The man’s clearly taken aback, but he knows better than to argue. “To the vows?”
“To whatever the fuck is the important part.”
Cleo pales. She glares at me, an undercurrent of something dangerous inside her gaze.
I stare right back. Not like I have a choice—I’m unable to take my eyes off her. She must want to get this over with as much as I do, even if it’s not for the same reason.
Last night, her relief had been palpable when I took her out of that dining room. And when I saw her face light up in the jewelry vault, I knew I’d done the right thing bringing her there. She doesn’t hate me. Last night, she was just angry and still adjusting to the situation. But she’ll adjust.
Garzolo women are strong. It can’t be easy for Cleo to stand here in front of everyone and go through the motions of a wedding her sister planned, but she looks perfectly composed.
The priest clears his throat again. “Do you, Rafaele Messero, take Cleo Garzolo as your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.”
He asks the same of Cleo.
“I do,” she says sourly.
Nero brings over the rings. I pick up the smaller one and take Cleo’s hand. There’s a slight tremble in her fingers, the only hint that maybe she’s not as composed as she seems.
I slip the ring on and let her do the same to me.
“On behalf of God and his church, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Finally.
I tug her against my chest and slam my lips down on hers.
Cleo gasps against my mouth.
Her body is so warm, almost burning, and the thought of sinking inside her heat tonight pulls an illicit groan out of my chest. She’s rigid at first, refusing to grant me entrance to her mouth, but when I pull her closer, she finally relents.
I slide my tongue between her lips and let out a low moan at her taste. Exquisite. My hands roam over her waist and the flare of her hips, and fuck, I’m having a hard time letting her go.
Especially when her body finally starts to melt against me, and her tongue starts rubbing against my own. Her fingers curl around my lapels, and she tugs me closer.
And then she whimpers.
It’s a small sound that only I can hear, but it awakens something so intense inside me, that I let her go suddenly.
When we break apart, we’re both panting. Cleo gapes at me, her eyes wide and nearly all black. Her lips are bright pink.
She presses her hand to her chest and tears her gaze away from me toward the cheering crowd. I do the same, only now becoming aware of the noise. My heart is racing.
Cleo’s sister glares at me from where she’s standing by De Rossi. I give him a small nod, almost daring the Don of the Casalesi not to return it. He does. He knows he’s my guest here, and that I could crush him easily on my turf.
They didn’t want this for Cleo, but there’s nothing they can do about it now.
A sense of triumph sweeps through me.
She’s finally mine.
We spend an excruciating hour taking pictures, but at least I have Cleo in my arms for most of it.
The photographer instructs us to kiss, but she won’t give me what I want. Her lips remain tightly sealed.
That moment at the altar proved to me what I’ve suspected all along. There’s chemistry between us, and it’s the kind I’ve never experienced before. I’m going to clear my entire fucking calendar this week, because I plan on exploring it in full.
I’ll get her out of my system, and then this madness will end.
After all, I’ve never allowed myself to get distracted by a woman for more than a brief spell.
I rush the photographer along the same way I did with the priest. My right hand is glued to Cleo’s hip. She shoots me looks filled with a simmering, defiant heat, and she doesn’t smile at the camera even when the photographer pleads with her.
“I’m self-conscious about my teeth,” she barks at him.
Little liar. She has perfect teeth. She has perfect everything.
When we’re finally inside the limo, I pull her toward me, intent on getting my fill of that mouth, but she hisses at my touch and jerks away. “My God, can you stop pawing at me?”
“Why would I? You’re my wife.” I reach for her.
“Don’t remind me,” she snaps, slapping my hand away. “Do you think just because we’re married you can manhandle me whenever you want?”
“Yes.”
She glares at me. “You’re horrible.”
She’s in denial. She enjoyed that kiss as much as I did.
“You didn’t seem to think so when I kissed you at the altar.”
Her cheeks turn bright red. “I was pretending.”
“You’re not that good an actress. Few people can make their pupils dilate on command.”
She scoffs. “You’re delusional if you think I enjoyed even a second of that kiss.”
What happened at the altar wasn’t an act. She’s lying.
“Why don’t we try it again and see?” I challenge.
She purses her lips. “I don’t think so.”
“Is that why you refused to give me a real kiss in front of the photographer? Because you were worried he’d capture how much you enjoyed it?”
“I don’t enjoy anything about you.”
I reach out and grab her chin, forcing her to look at me. “Prove it then.”
She wrenches her face away from my grip and glares.
I arch a brow. “Or are you scared?”
She scoffs. “Of you? Hardly.”
“Then what’s stopping you?” I challenge her. If she wants to play games with me, we can play, but I’ll win.
Her eyes flicker with a mix of defiance and something else. Something I can’t quite place. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll prove it.”
Before I can even register what’s happening, she crashes her lips against mine in a bruising kiss. My hands instinctively grip her waist, pulling her closer to me, deepening it.
She doesn’t wait a second before she slides her tongue into my mouth. Fuck, she tastes incredible. My hand moves lower, cupping her ass through the layers of her wedding dress. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this eager to cop a feel. When she tugs on my bottom lip with her teeth, I groan into her mouth. I’m on fire. I need to be inside of her.
The limo swerves, and we break apart, gasping for air. She rips her body away from me, slides to the other end of the seat, and faces the window.
“Let me see your eyes,” I demand, my voice breathless.
She can’t deny it now. Her jaw clenches. When she doesn’t turn, I slide over to her and wrap my palm around her neck. Her pulse flutters beneath my touch.
“Will you admit you lied?”
She swallows, her elegant throat bobbing against my hand.
I stroke it with my thumb. “We shouldn’t start our marriage with a lie.”
Finally, she turns to me, her lips inches away from mine.
Her pupils are blown wide, but it’s not just arousal swimming inside of them. She’s furious. I frown.
“I will never like your kisses or your touch,” she whispers harshly. “You’re my jailer. Do you think I’ll ever forget that?”
The car pulls to a stop, and she’s out of it before I can tell her to wait.
I rake my fingers through my hair and watch her hurry toward the hotel, the sunlight winking against the butterfly brooch pinning her braids.
Stubborn girl. She’s too proud to admit the truth out loud, but it doesn’t matter.
She’s mine.
And she’ll surrender to me tonight.
