Page 41 of The Mafia's Bride
A woman so unlike me, who can turn me on and see red all at once, fits against me so well. Fate has a cruel sense of humor.
“Well, that’s over now.” She scoffs, allowing my hands to explore her body while her eyes track the details in the mirror. I don’t mention how she lets me support her body, giving in to the caresses, arching to have more. “I’ve moved on from you.”
“Obviously.” Daring her, I graze the underside of one breast watching as she trembles. She’s all grace and wanton lust rolled into a perfect body.
She might hate me, loathe me. But she certainty wants to fuck me.
Lowering my mouth to her ear, I whisper, “Do you like to watch?”
Licking her lips, green eyes catch mine and hold. Her breathing halts and I smile deliciously slow. “You do. Have you ever watched before? Watched someone fuck you, so you could see the pleasure covering your face?”
She snorts, but she doesn’t confirm. Maybe this superficial, attention-seeking party girl is really just a woman starved for something? Starved for love, for real attention, for acceptance.
There’s a large part that knows my main concern should be fulfilling the contract—making sure she’s safe and cared for while securing Ace’s shipments.
But the bigger part wants to crack open Sloane’s heart, peer into the darkness and see every hurt. Take all those broken, black pieces, examine them, see what has hurt her before and fix it. Show her that someone will always be here, always love her.
I swallow hard.
Only a few weeks, a handful of meetings, and I’m a simpering fool for this fallen angel.
My hands travel lower, over her belly button, to the small scrap of lace she calls panties and rub along her seam. Her hips buck sharply, instinctively, begging for more.
I watch her face. Her eyes are half open, green gone under the black of her pupils as she stares at my finger, lips parted. A haze of lust coats her chest and cheeks, the pale pink a reminder of our wedding colors. My hand goes back, sensing the wetness there and I add a slight pressure against her clit.
She whimpers and it’s like hearing an angel sing.
“Sloane, look at the mess you’re making.” I pull my finger back, holding it to her face. Wetness glistens under the soft hotel lights. “Clean it.”
She glares but her face is too flushed, body too primed to explode.I’ve barely touched her but the command, the dominance, is doing something to this woman.
She wants the commands, she wants to be made to do it.
“Do I need to take you over my knee?” I challenge, eyebrow raised. My cock twitches at the idea of marking her pale flesh. “Don’t test me, little menace. You’re not in charge here.”
She snorts, but it’s a façade. “You’re certainly not in charge.”
“No?”
Swiftly, I’ve thrown her over the vanity, her plump ass into the air. Within seconds, the strips of her panties are torn, the fabric fluttering to the floor, the sting of pain causing a hiss to release through her red lips.
“In this marriage, menace, I’m the one who commands you. And, if you behave,” my hand massages her ass, spreading her cheeks wider, “I’ll let you command me. But not before you learn to follow my word.”
Her violent eyes look at me in the mirror, daring me to do more. “Fuck you. And fuck your control.”
I laugh, the sound echoing around us.
There’s more here than simple stubbornness. She’s lashing out at me, at her clan for always forcing her to follow the rules.
My wife doesn’t like rules, but I’ll need her loyalty—inside our marriage and outside it.
One harsh slap falls to the left side and she shrieks. Quickly, my hand rubs away the burn, easing the pain. “One. How many more do you need to change your tune?”
Sloane heaves, breasts jiggling over the vanity top. “Did you just spank me?” She tries to push up, but my hand goes to her neck, keeping her firmly down. Her cheek presses into the wood, so she can only see me in the mirror. “What the fuck, Alessio?”
“We’re married now, Sloane. You can call me Lex. Now. Who do you belong to?”
She curses me, trying to search for the knife. Thankfully, it fell to the ground, stabbing directly into the plush carpet below our feet. “Not to fucking you.”
