Page 59 of Marry Me Not
“Oh.” My voice came out higher than I intended.
“Turns out we didn’t discuss a lot of things.” He reached across the console and wrapped his palm around my forearm. His thumb brushed over the autographs I’d collected. “Including things like this.” His eyes came up to mine. “If you’re going to have any man’s name on you,” he said quietly, “it had better be mine.”
His words filled my stomach with a traitorous flock of butterflies.
A silvery glint caught my eye. There was a metallic pen in the console.
Maybe it was the tequila still humming in my bloodstream. Maybe it was the heat gathering in his gaze. Or maybe it was the way he’d handled me tonight—gently and considerately, out of character for a man who had once seemed incapable of being either.
Suddenly, I craved a different kind of thrill.
The pen felt cold and solid between my fingers as I picked it up and held it out to him. “Then write it.”
His gaze darkened. A second passed before he took it. His expression wasn’t so impartial anymore.
“Not here.” He released my arm and set his palm against my bare thigh.
My pulse skittered low inside my body.
Slowly, he drew my leg toward him. The hem of my skirt rode higher with the movement, but he didn’t stop there. He touched the tip of the pen to my thigh and traced it upward, guiding the fabric out of his way with maddening patience.
Finally, he paused. Another inch, and he would be able to see my panties.
Moving his hand in firm, unhurried strokes, he wrote out each letter.
BELONGS TO COSIMO FERRARO.
As he pressed in the period, the side of his hand brushed right over the apex of my thighs. Pleasure sparked at the point of contact, and I bit back a gasp that threatened to spill out.
He capped the pen and dropped it back into the console.
“There.” His voice was low.
I was so hot all over. Feverish.
His gaze was pitch-black as he lifted his thumb to the corner of my mouth and drew it across my lower lip—once, slowly, like he wanted to learn the shape of it and intended to remember it. “Get some sleep, Nettle. Maybe you’ll dream of your nice future husband.”
I did dream that night. But it wasn’t about a nice man with gentle hands and a shared passion for art history.
It was about a quiet scoff in a dark car, and two words I couldn’t stop turning over.
Opposites attract.
CHAPTER 19
FABIANA
The next fewdays passed in a flash until there was nothing left to plan, no decisions to make, no RSVPs to count.
The only thing left was to get married.
We were about to board Rafe’s private jet and fly to the wedding venue in upstate New York. Elena, who’d arrived from Geneva late last night, dropped into the empty seat beside me and handed me a muffin she’d taken from the breakfast buffet in the corner. “Try this. I’m obsessed.”
We were sitting in the small private lounge, waiting for the pilot’s go-ahead. Cleo was on my other side, engrossed in a copy ofVogue, with Yeti asleep in her lap. Rafe sat in an armchair across from us, talking on the phone in a hushed tone to one of his men.
I bit into the muffin. “Yum. But I shouldn’t have any more sugar.” I handed it back to her. “I’m already jittery, and I have a feeling it’s only going to get worse the closer we get to the ceremony.”
Elena frowned. “Are you afraid of him?”
