Page 22 of Unholy Union
She obviously went out of her way to stick it to not only me but Papà. He picked out her gown, some thick and heavy dress that looked straight out of 1982 if I’m being honest. It showed no skin and was an eyesore.
I wasn’t looking forward to marrying a woman in a dress that fucking ugly. But I also wasn’t looking forward to getting married period.
And then Sabrina Corsini walked out in her lacy, rebellious little number that had a sharp slit up the thigh and a deep plunge down the neckline and almost made her whole chest area looksheer.
It looked like her tits were covered by nothing but strategically placed beads.
It was sexy and feminine and rebellious all at once.
Papà scowled like he wanted to call the entire ceremony off.
But all I’ve wanted to do from the moment I’ve seen her in it is discover what’sunderneathall the lacy sheer fabric.
I fill both glasses with Dom and hand her the first, keeping my expression tempered.
“Happily ever afters are for fairytales, principessa,” I say, handing her glass over. “We’re not some bedtime story. This marriage? It’s real, no matter how rough and unpleasant it gets.”
She accepts the flute, taking a long swig from it. Her gaze never wavers from mine as she does. “Then I suppose if this is real, I shouldn’t expect a prince charming to show up and save me.”
“You would be correct. There is no prince charming. Only the villain you were forced to marry.”
It’s amusing to watch the subtle shift in her expression. The way her pupils dilate and her glossy lips part, even how she seems to clutch her flute of champagne more firmly.
I grin at her, my lips a crooked slash across my face. “Are you that easily frazzled? I expect more fromtheRinaldo Corsini’s daughter.”
“I’m… not frazzled.”
But the words are barely out of her mouth before she’s downing the rest of the champagne.
It’s far from her first of the night—I saw her at the reception, even if she didn’t realize I was keeping an eye on her.
My little wife tossed back at least four glasses then. If I had to guess, she’d started before that when she’d disappeared with her bridesmaids to freshen up after the wedding. Her freckled cheeks are flushed and rosy tinted. She’s a little breathless as she sets the flute down and chances a look back up at me.
An instant heat charges the air. It’s sudden but powerful.
It’s in how she peers up at me, eyes golden and pupils large and dark, framed by lashes that flutter.
We’ve both come to the same conclusion, realizing we’re only a couple inches apart. We’re officially husband and wife and alone for the night in our hotel suite.
I had already known these things on arationallevel.
But in the heat of the moment, staring into her flushed face, it hits different. It’s more intense and immediate, tugging at something deep inside me, making me acutely aware of the fact that little rosy-cheeked Sabrina Corsini is mine to enjoy.
Mine to devour. Mine to destroy.
Mine in every conceivable way for the rest of our lives—and it startsright now.
I slide the flute out of her hands and set hers and mine down.
“Enough about fairytales, principessa. Let’s make ourselves comfortable.”
She takes a step back, her shoulders tense. “I need to freshen up. Excuse me a moment.”
Without waiting for my answer, she pivots on her heel and marches toward the wide panel that disguises the other half of the penthouse from view. Sliding the doors apart, she steps through in search of the bathroom (or at least that’s what I assume).
I resist the urge to scowl, instead moving toward the fireplace to mess with its controls.
The Aman staff have gone beyond leaving us the Dom Pérignon; they’ve set up an arrangement of chocolate truffles in a glass cloche alongside chocolate strawberries and other fruits. There’s a selection of artisanal cheeses and charcuterie, served with Italian honey, fresh figs, and crisp focaccia.
