Page 51 of The Proposal

“Yes,” I say, nodding once to emphasise my word.

He leans back down to place his lips on mine, but this time, it isn’t a chaste kiss; it’s deep, sensual … combustible.

When he draws out of the kiss, he bends slightly at the knees and effortlessly scoops me into his big, strong arms, bridal style.

He never got to carry me over the threshold on our wedding day, but the fact that he came with a plan, a vial of blood, tells me he already knew we wouldn’t be consummating our marriage.

I slip my arms around his neck, resting my cheek against his shoulder with a contented sigh. I’m married to a man who truly respects my boundaries, and I know, with all my heart, that I’m giving myself to the right person. I can’t imagine anyone else going to the lengths he did on our wedding night simply to protect me.

Lucia was right. I think he doeslike, likeme, but you know what, Ilike, likehimright back.

When we reach our room, Dante places me down beside the bed. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes,” I reply, reaching up to skim my fingertips down the side of his handsome face.

I may not be giving myself to a man I love, but there are definitely feelings involved. We have a mutual understanding, a connection that goes beyond the physical.

We’re bound by life and marriage; who knows where thatwill take us in the years ahead? There’s one thing I can be sure of: I’m grateful to be here in this moment with him.

He gives me one of his devastating smiles that makes me weak at the knees as he steps forward. “Turn around,Bellezza.”

Goose bumps pebble my skin as he carefully drags down the zipper of my dress, lets the straps fall from my shoulders, and steps back while the silky fabric glides down, gathering at my feet.

“Fucking perfection,” he murmurs as he reaches out to palm my butt cheeks in his hands. I’m wearing the black lace underwear he picked out for me when we went shopping the other day.

Once he’s done manhandling me, he reaches up to unclasp my bra. He growls when it hits the floor beside my dress. “Turn around and face me.”

I do as he asks, and his eyes peruse the length of my body from my head to my toes before moving back to my large, perky, bare breasts; then he tilts his face towards the ceiling and groans.

I may be inexperienced at this, but I’m no wallflower. I’ve been forced into doing as I’m told my entire life, but shy is a word I wouldn’t use to describe myself.

Hooking my thumbs in the waistband of my underwear, I drag them down my legs as my husband watches on.

The searing heat in his gaze as it traces every inch of my bare skin is enough to silence any doubts I’ve ever had about myself or my body image. Without a single word, he has the power to make me feel beautiful and truly desired.

“Arabella,” he whispers as he removes his jacket and tosses it across the room.

My heart thunders in my chest as he closes the small distance between us and tugs my body to his. It’s hot … it’s possessive, and it has moisture flooding between my thighs.

His lips claim mine with a fiery hunger that has my toescurling. This is the real Dante Mancini—unfiltered, untamed—the man he’s been holding back until now.

We are both panting when he draws back and scoops me into his arms again. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” I say when he gently lays me in the middle of the bed and straightens.

His eyes remain locked with mine as he undoes his dress shirt—one agonising button at a time. Once he’s done, he untucks it from his trousers, slips off his cufflinks, and stuffs them into his pocket.

He shrugs out of his shirt to reveal those damn sexy tattoos and his muscles flex as he tosses it aside like he did his jacket. He’s like my own personal stripper. I could watch him on a loop every day and never tire.

A strangled whimper permeates in the back of my throat as my eyes drink him in—I want to lick him from head to toe. My not-so-subtle gawking starts at his broad shoulders before moving to his toned chest, then down to his rippled abs, pausing when I reach the delicious ‘V’ that disappears into the waistband of his trousers.

“I still want one of those tattoos,” I tell him.

“And like I said, nobody but me gets to touch those tits.”

“Can I get it on my shoulder blade?”

He pauses momentarily before nodding. “I’ll take you to see my guy.”

“Okay,” I reply, smiling.

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