Page 89 of Wicked Sinner
“Don’t you dare leave that bed,” I warn her. “Or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and bring you back up here.”
“When do I get to leave?” she retorts, and I narrow my eyes at her.
“Don’t act like you’re in any hurry to stop. How many times have I made you come since yesterday?”
Bridget presses her lips together. “Caesar?—”
“Just… stay there.” I stride toward the door before she can say anything about how this is temporary, about lines we shouldn’t be crossing or mistakes that she thinks we’re making. I don’t want to hear it right now. Not yet.
I bring her up breakfast in bed—a cup of her favorite tea and pancakes with butter and maple syrup, scrambled eggs with fancy cheese, and blueberry sausages. Bridget eyes it hungrily as I bring her the tray, and she looks at me as I settle into bed next to her.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she says softly, and I reach for a fork, cutting off a bit of pancake and holding it out to her.
"I can and I will." I put the bit of pancake to her lips, resisting the urge to lean in and lick off the traces of maple syrup as she takes the bite. "You're my wife, you're pregnant, and you're in my bed. I'm going to spoil you."
Bridget lets out a huff of a breath. "Caesar?—"
"Let me do this, Bridget." My voice is more serious now. "Let me take care of you the way I should have from the beginning. Just… for a little while, at least."
She's quiet for a moment, studying my face. "This doesn't change anything, you know. One night doesn't erase everything that's happened between us."
It feels like a blow, albeit one I knew was coming. “I know,” I say quietly.
"We slept together. That's all. It doesn't mean?—"
“You don’t have to rub it in.” I sit back, my appetite fading. “Do you really not see how this could be good, Bridget? How every time we stop fighting this and stop fucking it up, everytime we’re justus… this is something different than we’ve ever felt with anyone else?”
Bridget’s eyes drop to the bed. "There's always been something between us," she admits quietly. "But attraction isn't the same thing as compatibility. Good sex doesn't make up for fundamental differences in how we see the world."
I swallow hard. "And how do we see the world differently?"
“You’re a mob boss.” She looks at me as if she can’t believe I’m asking the question. “I’m a mechanic, Caesar. I live in a suburb of Miami. I run a shop that, half the time, I charge less than I should because I don’t want anyone in need of a running vehicle to go without it. I’m independent and I don’t like being told what to do. You’re?—”
“What?” I look at her, daring her to keep going. “What am I?”
“You’re rich and controlling and violent.” Her gaze holds mine. “You’re also hot as hell and the best lay I’ve ever had, but Caesar… that’s not enough. I haven’t forgotten that you kidnapped me. This babyisours… but I don’t want them or me to live in a world where everything is bloody and violent and where kidnapping and coercion are how you get things done. We come from different worlds and we’re different people.”
"And you think there's no middle ground between us?"
"I don't know." She looks down at her hands. "Is there? Because so far, every major decision in this relationship has been made by you. You decided to kidnap me, you decided we needed to get married, you decided where I would live, and how I would be protected. When do I get to decide something?"
“You also agreed to the marriage,” I point out, and Bridget glares at me.
“You made a strong argument. But you can’t deny, after that disaster of a party, that I’m not a good mafia wife. And I don’t want to be, Caesar. I don’t want to be good at mingling withthose women and putting on a fake smile and pretending to be a socialite. I don’t want to be like them.”
“I don’t want you to be.” It’s one of the most honest things I’ve ever said. I look at her, wanting her to understand that. “I don’t want an Isabella. Hell, Konstantin’s wife is amazing, but I don’t want a woman like her either. Since I met you, Bridget, all I’ve wanted is you.”
“In bed.” She looks at me. “But outside of it, what do we have in common, Caesar?”
“We both want each other.” I reach out to touch her, but she flinches away. “We want to be happy. We don’t want to do what society expects of us?—”
Something flashes across her face, an expression I can’t entirely read. “I can’t make decisions for myself, Caesar. Because of yoursocietyand the danger it’s put me in, and the choices you’ve made for me. We’re here because I was attacked, I don’t know how I can ever feel safe…”
“When the danger is gone, you can make decisions?—”
"Can I? Really?" She turns to face me fully. "If I decide I don't want bodyguards following me everywhere, will you respect that? If I decide I want our child to go to public school instead of some private institution, will you let that happen? If I decide I want to work late at the shop without checking in every hour, will you be okay with that?"
I open my mouth to answer, then close it again. Because the truth is, the idea of her being unprotected, of our child being vulnerable, makes my chest tighten with anxiety. The thought of not knowing where she is every moment of the day makes my protective instincts roar to life.
