Page 31 of Unholy Union
His eyes snap back to mine, an amused glint in them. “It’s not her place, principessa.”
“And whereisher place?”
It’s a question I expect him to answer—and he does.
But not in the way I anticipate.
Cato Valente uses his long, dominating height to his advantage. In three strides flat he’s crossing the length of the den, closing any gap that exists between us. Before I can even think to counter him, he reaches for me with the same powerful hands that had inflicted untold levels of pleasure on me last night in our hotel suite.
A sharp scream spills out of me as I’m hoisted off the ground and flung upside down over his shoulder.
“CATO!” I scream, kicking my legs. “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!?’
“Taking my wife to bed where she belongs.”
My screams, my protests, are ignored.
Cato hauls me up the nearest staircase to the second floor, ignoring the startled looks from staff members. None of them dare interfere—they simply gape for a moment and then bustle on their way, returning to whatever task they were in the middle of.
He flings open the double doors to our bedroom and carries me over to the California king. I’m unloaded like cargo, dropped from his shoulder onto the bouncy Tempur-Pedic mattress.
“You asshole!” I scream, pushing myself up.
Cato walks calmly to the doors and draws them shut, twisting the lock into place and trapping me inside with him. His hands return to his pockets and he turns to face me.
“Are you going to get ready for bed like a good girl or am I going to have to do it for you?”
The threatening ultimatum sends a vibration of lust through me. Followed by the immediate disgust I have with myself for being attracted to this man.
But my body has a mind of its own; she remembers all too well how Cato had worked me just right last night.
Many women have disappointing wedding nights. Mine was explosive in the most toxic yet satisfying way.
So much so I’ve literally spent the entire day not thinking about it. I’ve pretended I’m not sore between my legs or that I didn’t have a couple bruises this morning from how roughly Cato had fucked me.
I’ve wiped—or at leasttriedto wipe—our entire wedding night from my mind.
I’m half tempted to tell him to shove his threat up his ass. I settle on the next best thing.
“Define good,” I say. “Because if you mean obedient, you married the wrong girl.”
His head tilts to the side. “Oh really? Then your father must’ve missed the memo. He’s done nothing but brag about how well-behaved and submissive you are. Was Daddy delusional about how pure and obedient his little princess is?”
Yes.
Mostly.
Papi has always seen me as his little girl. He’s never been able to accept the fact I’m all grown up now, and though I do feed into it in his presence, it’s because I realized a long time ago it’s easier to play the part.
There’s a saying that goes “you catch more flies with honey than vinegar”, and that’s been my strategy in most life situations.
If only I could stomach doing so now. But being married to Cato Valente is a bridge too far. It’s so far over the line I can’t even bring myself to pretend.
Cato’s interest is piqued on the topic. As he poses his question and I don’t answer right away, he starts toward the bed, letting his dark gaze rove over every inch of me.
Suddenly, I feel way too exposed—cognizant of how my bare thighs are in view and how the strap on my tank top has slipped down my shoulder. Heat flushes onto my freckled cheeks, and though I can’t see myself in any mirror, I’m pretty sure they’re turning a rosy pink.
“It reallyisinteresting,” Cato ponders aloud. “I was promised the nice little virginal daughter of Rinaldo Corsini. Instead, I got a filthy little whore who pulled a knife and rode my cock like a pro. I’d say there’s a lot Daddy didn’t know about his daughter.”
