Page 82 of Unholy Union
“God, Cato,” she wheezes. “You trying to crack my ribs?”
“Call it payback,” I mutter against her temple, even as sharp pain flares in my shoulder from the gunshot wound. I release her and step back. “I’m surprised you made it. You didn’t bother with the wedding.”
She shrugs. “You scheduled it during my trip to Iceland. Northern Lights don’t photograph themselves.”
“A convenient excuse. Funny how you always seem to be watching some rare celestial event every time something important happens in the family.”
“No offense, big brother,” she replies dryly. “But if it’s a choice between celestial anything and mafia blood feuds, I’m choosing celestial every time.”
“I’m guessing that means you’ll be on the first redeye out of NYC?”
“You guessed right. Forty-eight hours is more than enough. Any longer, and I might need to start seeing a family therapist again.”
Before I can give her more shit, I pick up on the heels clicking across stone.
Sabrina and Mama are approaching.
Mama’s face is fixed in that gracious mask she wears for public settings, but her eyes scan Celeste’s outfit like a customs officer looking for contraband. The nose ring, the slacks, the messy updo.
None of it sits well with her.
“I’d like a word, Celeste,” she says coolly, ignoring me and Sabrina entirely as her gaze locks on my sister. “Alone.”
Celeste lifts one brow, amused. “Lead the way, Mama.”
They walk off together toward one of the shaded arbors.
I catch the tension knitting Sabrina’s brows together as she watches them go.
“Don’t worry,” I murmur, brushing my fingers against the small of her back. “Nothing our mother says fazes Celeste. She’s actually worse than Cassian in that regard.”
Sabrina turns to me with a sultry look on her face, cheeks flushed and freckles more prominent than usual. Her fingers lift to the collar of my shirt, smoothing it out, trailing down the center of my chest like she’s straightening more imaginary wrinkles.
Her touch is light and soft, but sets every nerve under my skin off.
There’s something about how sensual it is that makes it immediately addictive. Makes my pulse race and makes me acutely aware of how much I want her.
More than I’ve probably wanted any woman.
She keeps going, palms flattening against the fabric over my abdomen. My muscles tighten instinctively, pulling taut at her touch.
Fuck, I do want her bad. I want to throw her down on the grass and sink my cock into her tight little pussy…
I’m breathing heavier as I forget where we are and the fact that we’re in the middle of a crowded garden.
“You look handsome today,” she murmurs softly, tipping her face up toward mine. Sunlight shines in her hazel eyes, tinting them gold.
But also reflecting the mischief in them.
My little wife knows exactly what she’s doing.
I slide my hand around her waist and drag her toward me until we’re close enough our bodies almost touch. Her perfume envelopes me, a sweet citrus scent that matches the tangerine sundress she’s wearing.
“You’re one to talk,” I rasp, brushing my thumb along the curve of her jaw. “You look so fucking good today I couldn’t stop watching you earlier.”
Her smile widens, so bright and natural that it’s almost hypnotic.
There’s a magnetic pull between us that’s like the charge in the air before a storm. We start leaning in slowly toward each other. She’s tipping her face up toward mine and I’m bowing my head down at her.
