Page 139 of Ruined Vows
Fuck.
I turn my head and press a kiss to her knee. Then her thigh. Higher. Slower. Her skin is soft and sleep-warm, and she sighs when I reach the place between her legs.
“Good morning,” I murmur against her skin.
She moans, eyes fluttering open as I shift to hover overher. My hand cups her jaw as I kiss her—deep and unhurried—like I’ve got all the time in the world to taste her again.
Because I do.
This morning, I’m not rushing. This isn’t about lust. It’s abouther.It’s about the fact that we have our entire future together, and nothing has excited me more.
I drag my mouth down her neck, over her collarbone, tasting every inch of her like I’m memorizing her with my tongue. She breathes my name when I suck gently at the pulse at her throat, and she arches when I run my palm over her breast, letting my thumb flick over her nipple until it pebbles beneath my touch.
Her body lies under mine, heat blooming as she wraps her arms around my shoulders and whispers, “You’re insatiable.”
“No,” I murmur, guiding myself to her entrance, “I’m just not done loving you. I’ll never tire of loving on you.”
I’m hard, and I push in slowly, bare and deep, watching her eyes darken with every inch I give her. Her fingers tighten around me as I roll my hips, gliding in her deeper, smoother, and never breaking eye contact. Her breath stutters; her mouth parts around a gasp that sounds too much like a confession.
“I’ve never…” she starts, but can’t finish.
I kiss the words from her lips. I know what she’s about to say. She never saw herself here, with me, like this. And perhaps before the first date, she didn’t.
I feel it in the way she clings to me—not just with her body, but her soul. Like she’s handing me every broken piece and trusting I won’t shatter them further. Now, she knows I won’t.
She’s mine to protect, mine to keep, and mine to love, and I make love to her like a vow, every stroke a promise carved into the morning light—her body molds to me like a prayer full of hope, promises, and vulnerability, but mostly,mine.
When she comes, it’s quiet. Our Eyes are locked. No walls. No masks. Just her. Raw and radiant. And beautiful,inside and out. And as I follow her into the fall, I know—thisis the moment everything changes.
Because now? She’s not just under my skin. She’sinmy blood.
After two hours of innate carnal activities, we shower and dress for the day. I head to work even though it pains me to leave her.
I text her throughout the day. She’s become friends with Irina, and I’m relieved they get along so well. Not that I ever doubted it. But then, again, Bianca doesn’t disappoint.
The smell of something sweet and unfamiliar greets me when I enter my home at the end of the day.
Not blood or metal. And not gun oil or bourbon, and nothing is on fire—yet. The only exception is my burning desire for my woman.
The smell is… vanilla. Cinnamon. Something warm andwrong.For a second, I think we’ve been infiltrated, poisoned, and ambushed by Martha Stewart.
I should consider myself lucky that there aren’t any dead bodies, seeing as how I left Bianca to her own devices for the day. It didn’t seem like a leap, but now I realize anything could have happened since she’s been left for the entire day.
Then I step into the kitchen, and there she is.
Bianca, barefoot, standing at the island, laughing—laughing—with Irina, the sixty-something Russian housekeeper who’s barely said three words to anyone since the last Petrovic wedding, which ended in gunfire and a decapitated cake.
They’re drinking tea from porcelain cups like it’s a royal ritual. I notice freshly baked scones sitting between them on a lacquered tray I haven’t seen since my mother’s funeral.
Bianca glances over her shoulder when I walk in.
“Welcome home, soldier,” she smirks. “You hungry or just confused?”
“Both.”
Irina actually pats my arm as she walks past, saying, “She’s good for this house. Loud, but good.”
Bianca beams like she won a marksman’s gun-shooting competition.
