Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Carlo
Ginni seems lost in a daydream. He is sitting beside me on the bed, holding my cuffed hand, but fuck knows where his mind has gone.
His slender chest is rising and falling rapidly, making the beads on his dress sparkle like captured stars.
An aftereffect of his dancing. But there’s something else too.
Something dreamy and distant in his expression, like he’s still somewhere else entirely, still lost in whatever fantasy he conjured while spinning around the room.
And what incredible dancing it was. I know he was swirling around a frigging basement, imagining it was our first dance, after forcing me to marry him through some insane online ceremony.
Nevertheless, he looked amazing. Absolutely breathtaking.
Gliding across the concrete floor with grace and poise that would put professional dancers to shame, his dress flowing around him like liquid silk.
The expression on his face was pure bliss, utterly transported, like he could actually see the ballroom he was imagining, and could hear the orchestra playing just for us.
There were moments when I cursed these chains because I yearned to get up and join him.
I wanted to place my hands on his narrow hips and twirl him around like he deserves, and feel his lithe body pressed against mine.
The urge was so strong it was almost painful, watching him dance alone when every instinct I had was screaming at me to be his partner, to give him the first dance he was so clearly craving.
Oh lord. I take a deep breath. Is insanity contagious? Have I finally lost my grip on reality completely?
I need to be working out how to escape. I have to plan the most discreet way of getting an annulment, assuming that ceremony was actually legally binding.
I should be cataloguing every weakness in his security, every moment when he lets his guard down.
I should not be lying here, hypnotized by Ginni’s dancing, mesmerized by the way his body moves like poetry in motion. I must keep my wits about me.
But Cristo, he’s beautiful. Even knowing what he is, even understanding the depth of his madness, I can’t deny the raw magnetism that radiates from him. It’s like he’s been designed specifically to short-circuit every rational thought in my head.
The way the dress clung to his curves as he spun, the way his hair caught the light, the pure joy on his face as he lost himself in the moment…
it was impossible to look away. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Even when I know I should be horrified, even when every logical part of my brain is screaming that this is wrong, I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
Suddenly, Ginni rouses. Shaking himself like someone waking from the most beautiful dream, his eyes refocusing on the present moment.
Returning from wherever his mind drifted to, probably some elaborate fantasy about reception parties and honeymoons and whatever other domestic bliss he’s cooked up in that twisted imagination of his.
He turns to face me, and the transformation is immediate. Gone is the dreamy, distant expression, replaced by something sharp and focused and entirely too knowing.
He’s grinning broadly. Blue eyes flashing with mischief and anticipation and something darker that makes my pulse spike.
“It’s our wedding night!” he beams with sheer delight, like he’s just announced we’re going to Disneyland instead of... whatever the hell he has planned for me now.
My stomach fills with icy dread, a cold weight settling in my gut like I’ve swallowed lead.
My lungs fill with horror, each breath suddenly requiring conscious effort.
But my cock fills, betraying every rational thought in my head.
And my heart starts fluttering all over the place like a teenager’s.
Heaven help me, I’m so conflicted and confused I don’t know which way is up anymore.
The combination of terror and arousal is making me dizzy.
How can I be this scared and this turned on at the same time?
What kind of sick psychology is that? But watching Ginni’s face light up with anticipation, seeing the way he looks at me like I’m his greatest treasure, I feel like I’m drowning in contradictions.
Ginni stands up slowly, gracefully, like everything he does. He pads to the end of the bed on silent feet, positioning himself where I can see every inch of him. Then he gives me a sweet smile, innocent and wicked all at once, and slowly, delicately slides off his satin pumps.
The movement is pure elegance, each motion deliberate and purposeful.
I force a swallow down my throat. Oh hells, I think I’m in for a striptease. A wedding night striptease from my brand-new husband, who drugged and kidnapped me into this marriage.
I should look away. I should close my eyes.
I should fucking do something other than stare like a starving man at a feast. But I can tell I’m not going to.
Some part of me that I’ve spent years trying to suppress has taken control, and all I can do is watch with fascination and dread as Giovanni Torrini prepares to seduce me on our wedding night.
Ginni is beautiful. Stunning in a way that defies description. And I have a pulse. I’m not strong enough to not watch, apparently I’m not even strong enough to maintain even a shred of dignity in the face of his particular brand of temptation.
My pulse quickens as Ginni continues to move, and I realize this isn’t just undressing.
This is performance art. His hands speak a language of their own.
One of grace, refinement and pure seduction that he’s clearly spent time perfecting.
Every gesture is calculated for maximum impact, designed to render me speechless and helpless.
He turns around, presenting his back to me. He looks over his shoulder and smiles sweetly.
The beaded bodice of the wedding dress requires careful handling, and Ginni takes his time with each tiny clasp and hook. His fingers work with practiced precision, effortless grace, as if he’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his mind. Which, knowing him, he probably has.
When the clasps are all undone, he turns around to face me.
His eyes blaze with naughty promise as laces are undone with ceremonial slowness.
Each loop loosened with deliberate care, the bodice gradually releasing its hold on his torso.
The white wedding dress slides off perfect skin in a fall that doubles as a caress, silk and lace pooling at his feet like water.
I blink, and somehow the transformation is complete. The dress is in a pool of silks at Ginni’s stocking-covered ankles, and now he is standing before me in lingerie.
A snow-white lacy bralette that does nothing to conceal his rosebud pink nipples, the delicate fabric a work of art in itself.
White suspenders embrace his hips with mathematical precision, creating perfect lines that draw the eye downward.
White silk stockings gleam on his legs like liquid moonlight, while the flash of naked skin on his thighs, nestled between the stockings and suspenders, does terrible things to my blood pressure.
The contrast between the stark white lingerie and his pale skin is hypnotic. Every piece fits him like it was custom made, which it probably was. Ginni would never settle for anything off the rack, especially not for something this important to him.
I tear my gaze away from the taunting skin of his thighs, desperate for some kind of anchor to sanity, only to discover white silk panties.
The feminine underwear skimming over a pronounced bulge starts short-circuiting my brain wiring entirely.
The sight is so incongruous, so perfectly Ginni, beautiful and feminine and undeniably masculine all at once, that I can’t process it.
Ginni makes a happy sound, somewhere between a sigh and a purr. He is beaming. Glowing with satisfaction and joy and anticipation. I’ve never seen him so happy, and it really damn suits him. The radiance coming off him is almost blinding, like he’s lit from within by pure contentment.
This is what he’s been waiting for, I realize. Not just today, not just this moment, but this feeling. This sense of complete satisfaction, of dreams finally becoming reality. Of being wanted and desired.
He looks like someone who’s gotten everything they ever wanted for Christmas, and I’m apparently the gift he’s most excited about unwrapping.
The thought should terrify me more than it does.
“It’s a G-string!” he boasts, hands artfully fluttering over his panties. “You can access my hole without having to take them off.”
My mind screeches to a full and utter stop. I cough. Several times. His fear about me having a heart attack might not be entirely unfounded.
Ginni reaches behind himself. He wriggles, and his pink tongue pokes out a little. He makes a noise of satisfaction.
His hand comes back around to his front. But now it is holding a butt plug. A chrome one with a diamond set on the edge of the flared base.
He places it carefully on the bed by my feet. Jesus Christ. He had that in while we were getting married. He recited vows about true love while his little hole was stuffed and stretched. He is such a fucking minx. A sheer and utter menace.
“See? I didn’t have to take my panties off, and now I’m all ready for you!” he exclaims proudly.
Before I can process what’s happening, he snatches the blanket and pulls it off. Exposing me utterly.
His blue eyes go to my cock. My very hard cock that is standing proud.
Ginni squeals in delight. “And you’re ready for me!”
He skips over to the bedside cabinet and grabs the industrial-sized bottle of lube. Then he dances his way back down to the foot of the bed.
I yell as a giant glob of cold lube hits my dick. The shock of it is intense. Painful.
“Whoopsie!” Ginni says cheerfully.