Page 19 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
Her breath catches, sharp and audible, and for a fleeting second I see the surprise flash across her face before she masters it. She adjusts against me, tentative at first, then surer, her curves aligning with my frame in a way that feels instinctive rather thanlearned like she was made for me and she can feel the pull to each other the same way I can.
“So a half truth,” she whispers, grasping my arm a little tighter.
I guide her easily, our steps falling into rhythm, and I cannot stop myself from noticing how perfectly she moves with me, how her body responds as though it recognizes mine. She smells faintly of champagne and something warmer beneath it, and I think, with an intensity that borders on reverence, that there is no part of her I do not want to know.
“No, you made an assumption,” I correct. “The same way you assumed I was just sitting there glaring at the room.”
“Were you not?” she chuckles, breathless now, the sound dissolving into the space between us as I draw her closer.
I lower my head, my mouth brushing her ear, my words meant for her alone. “Did you not notice I was staring at you?” I murmur, my hand tightening at her waist as the music swells.
Her shoulders lift with a slow inhale. “I noticed that your eye caught mine a few times,” she admits softly. “But you were surveilling the room.”
“I wasn’t watching the room,” I continue, my thumb tracing a small, possessive arc at her side, just enough to make her press her chest into me as we spin in a circle. “I was counting the seconds until I could touch you without an audience.”
“Who said I would let you?” she counters, tilting her head back so she can look at me properly. The light catches in her eyes then, and I see the gold threaded through the hazel, bright and sharp, just another detail I know I will fixate on later. My attention drifts, unbidden, to the curve of her hips beneath myhands, to the faint scatter of freckles across her nose, each one feeling like something I am meant to memorize.
I answer her without pulling back. My lips brush the curve of her ear, close enough that the words barely make it past my mouth, and my hand tightens at her waist as I lean in, anchoring her there with me.
“You will,” I murmur, my voice thick with want and desire as I push my luck even further.
She shifts against me, the movement subtle but unmistakable, her body pressing closer as if testing the truth of my words. My hand follows instinctively, sliding along the curve of her waist, memorizing the shape of her through silk and lace. She fits against me too easily, her softness grounding, her warmth impossible to ignore.
“You’re very confident that you can read me so quickly,” she says, though her voice has softened, her chin tipping slightly as if to give me better access.
“Rosa, I can see every dirty thought that crosses your mind, every time you look at me,” I continue quietly, my thumb pressing into her side in a way that makes the message unmistakable. “You want me almost as much as I want you.”
“Oh yeah?” She gasps, allowing her eyes to drop down to my chest. “And what do I want you to do to me?”
I draw back just enough to meet her gaze again, the space between us charged and unbroken, the music still moving around us while neither of us does.
“You want me to rip this dress in half, and fuck you over the nearest table,” I say it with enough certainty that Rosa’s eyeswiden, her breath stalling as her mouth parts in surprise at my frankness. I watch the reaction closely, the way she recalibrates, the way her pulse jumps beneath my hand.
“Am I wrong?”
“So what’s stopping you?” she asks, already resuming the gentle sway so anyone watching still sees a dutiful husband and wife moving in time with the music.
My mouth curves as I tighten my hold and guide her into a smooth dip, just deep enough to draw the room’s attention. The crowd responds on cue, applause rising around us as she laughs softly, one hand braced against my shoulder.
“You did,” I murmur, bringing her back upright with controlled ease. “You scheduled a very long reception,Fiorella. I thought you wanted to finish the night before I deflowered you on every surface between here and our bedroom.”
“Shit,” she blows out a sharp breath, and she spins out and turns back in so her back against my chest, my cock strains against my slacks. “That’s a lot of surfaces. You live fifty blocks downtown.”
I lean down into her ear. “You’ll need to cum twice before taking me.”
“Mmm,” she hums, and giggles when I spin her out again. “You’re exaggerating."
“I won’t lie about your safety,Fiorella,” I assure her. “I wouldn’t want to fuck you in half on our first night.”
She spins back into my chest and looks up at me, “You mean my first time.”
My hand tightens at her waist before I think better of it, a reflex I do not bother correcting. I step closer, close enough that the music seems to tilt around us, close enough that her back fits flush against my chest again. Her father did say the Irish princess was a good Catholic girl. Her father’s words surface unbidden in my mind—good Catholic girl, Irish princess—and I almost smile at the irony of it. I had forgotten that particular detail, tucked it away beneath lace and champagne and composure.
“Maybe, I should make you cum three times then,” I say quietly, the answer unflinching.
Her pulse jumps beneath my palm. I can feel it, fast and telling, and it does something to me that lust alone never quite manages. My mouth lowers toward her ear again, slower this time, my breath measured.
I was right. She fits the space she has stepped into as if it was always waiting for her, as if every careful pause and restrained breath has been leading here. It feels less like claiming and more like recognition, like finding something you did not know you had been searching for and realizing it has been moving toward you all along. She is a thin sliver of heaven that slipped free of its rules and landed squarely in my hands, singular, impossible, and unmistakably meant to be here.
