Chapter 4
Marco’s fingers encircle my wrist like another ring, another chain, leading me away from the windows. My bare feet whisper against cold marble as we move through his penthouse, past artwork I’ll have decades to memorize, toward a hallway I explored earlier but never wanted to enter.
The master bedroom door looms before us like the entrance to a new circle of hell. He pushes it open with his free hand, guiding me inside with that grip that's firm but not painful, not yet.
The torn lace of grandmother's wedding dress trails behind me like a ghost, catching on the doorframe before ripping further.
I clutch Mother's rosary in my free hand, the wooden beads cutting crescents into my palm.
Her prayers couldn't save her from a marriage that killed her. They won't save me from this one.
The room is exactly what I expected: dark wood, masculine elegance, a California king that dominates the space.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Chicago skyline, city lights twinkling like diamonds I'll never touch again.
Everything smells like him, that bittersweet citrus cologne that makes my head swim despite my hatred.
"Let go," I say, tugging against his hold.
"No." His thumb finds my pulse point, pressing gently. "Your heart is racing."
"The only thing racing is my urge to push you out that window."
"Liar." He turns me to face him, backing me against the closed door. "I can see it in your eyes, principessa. The way your pupils dilate when I get close. The way your breath catches."
I hate that he's right. Hate the heat pooling low in my belly despite everything.
This man forced me at gunpoint to marry him.
The same gun that kissed my temple an hour ago.
I should feel nothing but revulsion. Instead, my traitorous body responds to his proximity like a struck match.
My nipples tighten against the lace of my bra, and I know he can see them through the torn fabric of the dress.
My mind screams in protest even as my body leans toward him. This is wrong. This is exactly what Mother must have felt, trapped between revulsion and attraction, slowly drowning in a world that kills women who resist.
"You're delusional," I manage, but my voice wavers.
His free hand traces the torn neckline of my dress, fingertips barely grazing skin. "Am I? Your pulse says otherwise." His thumb strokes over my racing heartbeat at my wrist. "It's jumping like a caged bird."
"That's fear."
"Fear doesn't make your nipples hard." His gaze drops to where they press against the torn lace. "Fear doesn't make you squeeze your thighs together. Fear doesn't make you wet enough that I can smell your arousal from here."
The crude observation makes me flush hot. "You're disgusting."
"I'm honest. And you're dripping for me already, aren't you?" His knee pushes between my legs, pressing against my core through the layers of fabric. The contact makes me gasp. "There it is. That little sound you make when you want something but won't admit it."
I jerk back, but there's nowhere to go. "Is this how all Rosetti men undress their wives? Or just the ones they kidnap?"
His smile is dark, predatory. "Turn around."
"Go to hell."
"Turn around, or I'll turn you myself." His voice carries that dangerous calm that makes my stomach flip. "The dress needs to come off either way."
For a moment, I consider fighting. But his eyes hold that same certainty they had when he pressed the gun to my temple. He'll get what he wants. The only question is how much I'll suffer in the process.
I slowly turn, facing the door. I feel him behind me, his presence overwhelming in the quiet room.
His hands grip the torn fabric at my shoulders, and with one swift motion, he rips the ruined dress completely apart.
The sound of tearing lace fills the room as what remains of grandmother's wedding dress falls away in tatters.
"Already torn beyond saving," he murmurs, his mouth suddenly at my neck. "Just like you will be."
The dress pools at my feet in a cascade of destroyed lace and broken dreams. I'm left in the white lingerie I wore for another man's wedding night, another life that died at the altar. The silk sheets of the bed behind us seem to whisper promises I don't want to hear.
"Beautiful," he says, his hands skimming down my arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Turn back around. Let me see what's mine."
I turn slowly, keeping my eyes fixed on his chest. But he tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. The hunger there makes my breath catch.
"White lace," he observes, one finger tracing the edge of my bra.
"Virgin bride lingerie. How inappropriate.
" His finger dips lower, circling my nipple through the lace.
"Tell me, principessa, how many lovers have disappointed you?
How many fumbling boys who didn't know what to do with a woman like you? "
"None of your business."
"Everything about you is my business now." He pinches my nipple through the lace, making me gasp. "Every inch of skin, every sound you make, every drop of wetness between your legs."
"I'll never be yours." The words come out breathy, undermined by the way my back arches into his touch.
"Your body already is." His other hand slides down my stomach, fingers teasing the edge of my panties. "It knows who it belongs to, even if your mind resists. Should I prove it? Should I slide my fingers into your pussy right now and show you how wet you are for me?"
I whirl around, ready to slap him, but he catches my wrist again. We're close now, close enough that I can feel his erection pressing against my stomach through his pants. The size of him makes my core clench with unwanted anticipation.
"Go ahead," I challenge, my voice rough. "Force me. Prove you're exactly the monster I think you are."
Something shifts in his expression. He plucks the rosary from my hand, setting it on the nightstand with deliberate care.
"Force you? No, principessa." He leans in, his lips almost brushing my ear.
"You're going to beg me. You're going to spread your legs and plead for my cock.
And you're going to hate yourself for loving every second of it. "
"You arrogant…"
"Tell me you're not dripping right now." His hand cups me through my panties, and I can't suppress the moan. "Christ, you're soaked. I can feel how hot you are through the lace. Your clit is probably throbbing, isn't it? Begging to be touched?"
His fingers press against my clit through the fabric, and my knees nearly buckle. "Stop…"
"Stop? When your hips are grinding against my hand?
" He increases the pressure, circling slowly.
"When your pussy is clenching, trying to pull my fingers inside?
Tell me you don't want to know what my tongue would feel like on your clit.
What it would be like to have Chicago's most dangerous man worship your pussy until you scream. "
The image he paints makes my core pulse with need.
I want to deny it, but the words stick in my throat.
Because God help me, I do want to know. This terrible curiosity has been eating at me since I first saw him in that conference room.
Even then, beneath the thrown wine and sharp words, something in me recognized something in him.
"Nothing to say?" He smirks, fingers still working me through the lace. "Then let me taste you, principessa. Let me bury my face between your thighs and make you come so hard you forget your own name. Unless you're too scared to find out how good my tongue feels."
The dare hangs between us, electric and dangerous. I could stop this. Could scream, fight, resist. But my treacherous body wants what he's offering, even as my mind recoils from the betrayal.
Before I can form a response, Marco drops to his knees.
The sight of him there, this man who commands an empire, who took me at gunpoint, kneeling before me in his expensive suit, it short-circuits my brain. His hands slide up my thighs, spreading them wider as he looks up at me with those dark eyes.
"What are you…"
"Proving a point." His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, pulling them down to reveal how completely soaked they are.
The evidence of my arousal is undeniable, the white lace practically transparent with wetness.
"Fuck, look at you. So wet you've soaked through completely.
Your pretty pussy is dripping for me, all swollen and pink. Your body knows exactly what it wants."
His mouth presses against my bare flesh, and I cry out. His tongue works against me, finding every sensitive spot, every nerve ending. He sucks my clit between his lips, and my hands fly to his shoulders for balance.
"That's it," he growls against me. "Let me hear those sounds. Let me taste how much you need this."
He spreads my legs wider, studying me with dark satisfaction as he continues his assault with his tongue.
"Perfect," he murmurs between licks. "Look how swollen you are. Your clit is practically begging for my mouth. And you're so wet it's dripping down your thighs."
His tongue finds a rhythm that makes my knees buckle. Only his grip on my legs keeps me upright as he devours me like a man starved.
"Marco," I moan, and immediately hate myself for saying his name like a prayer.
"Not Marco." He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against my sensitive flesh. "Husband. Say it."
"Never."
He slides two fingers inside me without warning, and I cry out at the stretch. "Your pussy says otherwise. Feel how it's gripping my fingers? Pulling them deeper?" He curls his fingers forward, finding a spot that makes me see stars. "Say it, or I stop."
"Don't stop," I beg, beyond pride now. "Please don't stop."
"Then say it." His tongue circles my clit while his fingers pump in and out, building a rhythm that has me climbing fast. "Say 'please, husband.' Say 'make me come, husband.'"
The orgasm builds impossibly high, my entire body tensing. I'm going to come. This monster who stole my life is going to make me come harder than I ever have, and I can't stop it.
"Husband," I moan, the word torn from me as pleasure crests. "Please, husband. Make me come."
"Good girl," he growls, and sucks my clit hard while his fingers stroke that perfect spot inside me.
I shatter. The orgasm crashes through me with violent intensity, my pussy clenching rhythmically around his fingers as waves of pleasure roll through me. I'm screaming, actually screaming his title as I come, my thighs shaking so hard I would collapse if not for his grip.
He doesn't stop. His tongue keeps working my oversensitive clit, his fingers still pumping, pushing me from one orgasm directly into another. This one hits even harder, my vision going white as I convulse against his mouth.
"That's it," he murmurs against me. "Come for me again. Let me feel that pussy pulse."
A third orgasm builds before the second fully ends, and I'm sobbing now, overwhelmed by the intensity. My legs shake uncontrollably, my core clenching so hard it almost hurts. He works me through all of it, drawing out every tremor, every pulse, until I'm whimpering from oversensitivity.
When he finally pulls back, I collapse against the door, legs unable to hold me.
He rises slowly, and I can see the prominent bulge in his pants, his cock straining against the expensive fabric.
He presses his mouth to mine, and I taste myself on his lips, sweet and shameful, as he claims this kiss like he's claimed everything else.
"You taste like mine," he says against my mouth. "Like you were made for my tongue."
I expect him to take me then. To free his cock and fuck me against the door. My pussy clenches at the thought, still pulsing with aftershocks. But instead, he steps back, leaving me trembling and desperate.
"Where are you going?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
"To shower. Alone." He adjusts himself through his pants, his cock clearly thick and hard. "Your punishment for the wine wasn't the orgasm, principessa. It was showing you exactly what you'll be missing. What you can't have until you beg for it properly. Not just my tongue, but my cock. All of it."
"You can't just…"
"I can do whatever I want. You're my wife.
" He pauses at the bathroom door. "When you're ready to admit you want me to fuck you, when you're ready to beg for my cock like you begged for my tongue, I'll consider it.
Until then, you can lie in my bed, dripping and empty, remembering how good I made you feel. "
The bathroom door closes with a soft click. Through it, I hear the shower turn on, and I know he's in there stroking that thick cock I felt pressed against me, denying me even the sight of it.
I collapse onto the silk sheets, my pussy still clenching on nothing, still dripping with arousal despite three orgasms. The bed smells like him, that damned citrus that makes me want to crawl into that shower and drop to my knees.
Every few seconds another aftershock rolls through me, making me gasp and clutch the sheets.
The bastard. He ate me until I screamed, made me call him husband while I came on his tongue three times, then walked away, leaving me desperate for more. My pussy aches to be filled, to feel that thick cock I only got to press against through fabric.
What would Alice think if she saw me now? Her strong sister who promised to protect her, spreading her legs for the enemy, begging him for more while she came on his tongue. The shame burns hot, mixing with the arousal that won't fade.
Through the bathroom door, I hear his groan, low and satisfied. He's coming without me, denying me even that.
But as I lie here in his bed, my pussy still throbbing from his mouth, I make myself a promise: Marco Rosetti will be the one begging before this is over. He'll beg to fuck me, beg to taste me again, beg for things he doesn't even know he wants yet.
He thinks he's won by walking away.
He has no idea what kind of war he just started.