Page 49 of Brutal Union
Something must pain my expression, because she asks, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I say.
Just that I'm falling in love with her.
17 - Marco
“You said not yet.” Her voice cuts through my concentration as she rounds my desk, barefoot and wearing only my shirt. “When, Marco?”
The security reports blur on my desk. Her father's name repeated seventeen times, Irish threats, Russian interest. No matter what we do, the Russians are always interested. But all I can focus on is how the white cotton clings to her curves, still damp with my cologne from where I held her in the elevator. Her nipples are hard beneath the thin material, visible peaks that make my mouth water.
"When will you finally take what we both want?" She moves closer, bare feet silent on the marble, but I hear every breath, every shift of fabric against her skin.
I lean back in my chair, watching her approach with the same wariness I'd show a loaded weapon. Three days since she brought me to my knees, and this woman threatens to destroy it all with a single question. The way she defended me publicly at that cafe still burns in my chest, a sensation I refuse to examine too closely.
"I'm reviewing threats," I say, voice carefully neutral despite the way my cock stirs at the sight of her. My knuckles go white on the whiskey glass, a tell I thought I'd eliminated years ago.
"From my father?" She stops beside my chair, close enough that I smell my cologne on her skin mixed with something uniquely hers. That sweet arousal I'm already addicted to. The scent makes my control fracture, hairline cracks spreadingthrough years of discipline. "He's been busy since this morning's disruption."
"Your father, the Irish, every family that smells opportunity." The aged scotch burns, but can't wash away the taste of her pussy, the memory of how she stood between me and her ex-boyfriend, declaring me hers with such fierce conviction. "Your public defense of me today has consequences."
She moves between me and the desk, blocking my view of the reports, forcing me to look at her. I'm reclined in my chair, so the position puts her pussy at my eye level, hidden only by my shirt and whatever she's wearing underneath. If anything.
"Good. I asked you a question," she says. "When will you finally take me?"
"When you're ready to be mine completely," I grip the chair arms hard enough to crack the leather. "Not just in bed. In everything."
"I defended you today." Her voice drops, fingers trailing along the desk's polished surface where men have bled out. "Publicly chose you over freedom. What more do you need?"
My jaw clenches so tight I taste copper. Every instinct screams to grab her, mark her, claim her. I lock my muscles, fighting the need. "I need to know you'll stay. Not because I forced you. Not because of debts. Because you want this."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You think I don't want this? After everything? After what I did to you three days ago? After you made me come on your tongue weeks ago?"
The crude reminder makes my cock twitch. "I think you want the idea of it. The excitement, the danger. But when reality sets in, when you realize what being mine truly means…"
"Stop." She steps closer, her bare thighs brushing my knees. The contact sends electricity through my entire body. "Stop deciding what I want. Stop pretending you know my mind better than I do."
"Then tell me." My voice roughens despite my attempt at control. "Tell me what you want."
"I want my husband." The word hangs between us, weighted with meaning. "I want to stop pretending this is just circumstances. I want to be your wife in every way that matters. I want your cock inside me, marking me, claiming me until I can't remember what it felt like before you owned me."
Something cracks in my chest, violent and irreversible. My hands move without permission, gripping her hips, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin shirt. "You want to be my wife?"
"I am your wife." She frames my face with her hands, forcing me to meet her eyes. "I chose that today. Not at gunpoint, not under duress. I chose you, Marco. I choose to stay. Now stop making me wait and fuck me like you mean it."
The words destroy every defense I've built. My cock is fully hard now, straining against my pants, and I know she can see it. Every man who looked at her today signed his death warrant. That college boy who dared suggest she leave me? He'll disappear by week's end. She doesn't know this yet, how my love comes with a body count.
"Say it again," I demand, pulling her into my lap. She comes willingly, straddling my thighs. She's not wearing panties. Her bare pussy presses against my pants, already wet, already ready.
"I choose to stay." She rolls her hips, grinding against my erection. Her wetness soaks through to my skin, marking me with her arousal. "I choose you."
She slides from my lap before I can stop her, dropping to her knees beside my chair. The sight stops my heart. Valentina Rosetti on her knees by choice, her hands finding my belt, working it open with steady fingers.
"I'm done waiting," she says, freeing my cock from my pants. It springs free, thick and hard, the head already glistening withprecum. Her eyes darken at the sight. "Done pretending this isn't what I want."
She leans forward, her tongue darting out to taste the precum beading at my tip. The contact makes me groan, my hands tangling in her hair. She looks up at me through her lashes, then takes me deep, swallowing half my length in one smooth motion.
"Fuck," I growl, fighting the urge to thrust into her throat. "Your mouth…"
