4. Bianca
Bianca
I used to have nightmares where I’m in the middle of the room at a Council event, only to suddenly realize I’m naked.
This is worse.
Under any other circumstance, the honeymoon suite at the Bennett would be picture-perfect.
A king-sized four-poster canopy bed with a luxurious duvet and an array of the softest pillows I’ve ever touched occupies most of the space.
The window opposite the bed overlooks the concrete jungle of lower Manhattan, the buildings rising high into the sky. Cold and industrial.
Like me.
A massive en suite features a claw-foot tub spacious enough for two, alongside a closet where my wedding gown now hangs like a giant white elephant.
The final and least welcome amenity lurks in the corner, tucked into the shadows. Lorenzo Demarco, the Council’s witness to our Cerimonia del Talamo.
I cinch my knee-length robe tighter and emerge from the bathroom, with Ren tracking my journey. The hulking man absolutely rivals my husband in good looks. Due to his muscular frame, most people would never guess that he’s an inch or two shy of Marco.
He wears his lighter brown hair short and parted on the side in a way that reminds me of a film noir gangster. The loosened tie and the demurely folded hands on his lap do nothing to ease my nerves, and I fight not to shrink from the chill in those icy blue eyes.
My freshly manicured feet pad across the ancient hardwood, and I climb onto the bed with as much grace as I can muster.
“Can I…?” I wave at the curtains hanging from the bed’s engraved wooden posts. Ren acquiesces by inclining his head, just a fraction.
If I didn’t know better, I’d almost interpret that flicker in his expression as sympathy. But I do know better, because the Council and their henchmen enjoy other people’s suffering.
I slide the fabric shut with a snick. The material is slightly opaque, but not opaque enough to protect my modesty or hide the buffoon sprawled across the comforter like an Italian Adonis from Ren’s eyes.
Propped up against the carved wood headboard, Marco’s mouth eases into a lazy grin. “C’mere, wifey.”
Shit. Only five minutes have passed since Livia led us to our room for the night. Marco consumed more of the drugged champagne before we left the reception.
A muscle twitches by my right eye. Rohypnol, commonly known on the street as roofies, requires at least twenty minutes to kick in.
But there’s no telling how much Marco’s size will impact the drug’s potency.
Did Livia use enough? Too much? I have no way of knowing and no more time to fret about the logistics.
I need to stall.
If I don’t manage to convince our one-man audience with the performance of a lifetime, I’m dead meat.
I shrug out of my robe and cast it to the side. Crafted from the same ivory as my dress, the silk corset pushes my breasts up into a reasonable swelling of flesh, and my matching lace boy shorts cup my backside. I crawl across the bed to Marco.
To think I’m wasting this outfit on him. I can name several men—endlessly obedient men—who’d pay to see me in lingerie. Men are at their most attractive when they don’t talk back.
Let’s get this over with.
Refusing to cave to my rising misgivings, I soldier on. Just as I reach for the button on his dress pants, Marco’s eyes snap open. Yelping, I instinctively spring back, only to stop short as he captures my wrist and jerks me onto his muscled chest.
Those green eyes rake over me with undisguised desire, an expression I’m only accustomed to receiving from the men I’ve paid. Something warm and wholly unwelcome stirs low in my abdomen.
No.
Absolutely not.
I crush the sensation before it can take root. This isn’t attraction. It’s simply chemistry. Proximity. A biological response to the handsome man pressed against me.
But at this exact moment, I can’t decide who I hate more. Marco, for the heated way he gazes at me, or myself, for the way my body insists on reacting to his.
He pulls me closer until we’re nearly nose to nose, his champagne-scented breath fanning my mouth. “I know you want to fuck me, principessa.”
His cocky rasp hits different in here, away from the guests we entertained all day. More intimate, like his words are intended solely for me. I don’t know why, but coupled with the spicy musk of his cologne, my senses begin to fray at the edges.
With dawning horror, I have to admit that he’s right. I never expected to find myself actually wanting Marco Argento, tonight or ever, but all I can think about is that kiss earlier and the way his lips coaxed rather than demanded my response.
His nose trails up my neck. “Look at you, all dressed up and ready for my cock.”
Idiot. Both him and me. I never enjoyed dirty talk in the past, and I can’t think of a single decent reason to start liking it now.
My teeth grind together, so I force my jaw to relax as I adopt a saccharine tone. “I wanted to do something special.” He still grips my right wrist, so I walk the fingers on my left hand across his chest and tease open his shirt buttons. Immediately, I resist the urge to drool.
His body, all defined abdominals and pectorals, with a light smattering of dark hair across his chest and a tantalizing trail that disappears under the waist of those purple dress pants, might as well be hewn from granite.
My conscience wars with the unwanted lust sparking inside me.
Fooling the Council-appointed witness requires putting on a show, and I always intended to avoid penetrative sex by maxing out my dramatic abilities.
Originally, I planned to fake both the sex itself and an orgasm, but with Ren in the room, my faith in my acting skills wanes.
That stupid scene from When Harry Met Sally keeps playing in my head, and I’m convinced Ren will see right through me.
To really sell this, I need to actually get myself off. I’ve never envisioned this kind of scenario before, but the choice is either persuade Ren that we’re consummating this marriage or risk the Council’s consequences.
I bet they’d start by assigning an entire panel to watch us fuck next time.
That horrific thought is almost enough to kill the desire coursing through my veins. For this to work, though, I can’t focus on that.
A strange calm settles in my chest. Pushing all doubts aside, I widen my knees to straddle his hips and quit fighting the blazing heat between my legs.
It’s just my body’s natural response to stimuli. The exact response I want if I hope to survive this night with the least amount of trauma possible.
My reaction to him means nothing.
Less than nothing. It’s the same biological magic that prompts me to hire escorts to satisfy my physical needs.
Marco’s breath catches as the position brings me into direct contact with the bulge in his trousers. He drags me forward, releasing my right hand so I can brace myself on the headboard behind him.
The wood squeaks with the motion, and I throw in a little breathy gasp for Ren’s benefit, shifting my eyes toward his corner to ensure I continue to hold his attention.
I do.
Marco, however, is a man on a mission. His hand flies to the back of my head, plucking at the pins holding my bun together.
My hair cascades free, and his gaze smolders as he drinks in my unbound locks. “So pretty.”
Damn. How can he still be so sober?
I pluck the drugged champagne from between the pillows near my husband’s head. Blocking the top with my thumb, I make a show of consuming some before handing the champagne back to him.
Marco accepts it with a lopsided grin. Predictable.
“And here I thought…you were such a prude.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he sips, and a smile plays at my lips for the first time today.
“A prude? Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” I tip the bottom of the bottle up to dribble a little more liquid into his mouth.
Only a matter of time now.
Reclaiming the champagne, I poke my head between the curtains to place the bottle on the bedside table.
Ren’s cool, assessing stare follows me. He’s reclining in a wingback chair, his knees spread in that way men do when they know they can take up as much space as they like. In the low light, his eyes almost glow, which causes my pulse to spike.
Heat surges into my cheeks, and I duck back behind the fabric, leaving that caprice firmly behind.
Keep it together.
You don’t want Ren, I scold myself. What I want is distance from the dangerous realization that I find Marco Argento physically appealing.
The chair creaks as Ren shifts his weight and clears his throat pointedly. Pretending he’s not here will be impossible, but I can’t let that stop me.
I push my hair behind my shoulders and return my attention to my husband, who’s been loosening his tie this whole time with little success. Scoffing, I tug the knot free before hauling the shirt down his shoulders and arms, trapping his elbows and wrists to ensure he keeps his hands to himself.
His tie hangs slack around his neck, caressing his bare chest. I grab the material, wrapping it around my fist and tugging him close enough to kiss.
I can’t bring myself to press my lips against his again just yet, though.
Considering my body’s treacherous behavior today, kissing him back at the altar was already a risky proposition.
But I need to at least fool Ren.
“I know this isn’t your first time…principessa.” Marco aims a smug grin at me.
My fingers flex with the desire to wring his entirely too attractive neck. Of course he’d pick this very second to remind me of the guillotine he dangles over my head, the blackmail that could destroy me.
I inhale and release the air again slowly as exasperation threatens to unravel my carefully laid plans.
When I abruptly release his tie, his head falls back with a satisfying thunk against the headboard.
Following him down, I grip his chin, allowing my manicured nails to drill into his chiseled jaw while I brace my other hand on the wood over his head. “Shut the fuck up for once, Argento,” I hiss.
His cock hardens, prodding the soft center between my legs. The immediate friction spurs him to buck his hips.
A tiny, scrupulous voice in my head begs me to climb off his lap and find another way, but with Ren watching, I don’t have that luxury. Marco’s enthusiasm will enable us to make this consummation more believable…but only if we complete our show before Marco loses consciousness.
When he rocks into me again, embers kindle in my stomach. He feels so good, and we need to sell this, so my brain disconnects as I roll my hips even more vigorously.
Marco moans and shifts positions, tightening his legs around me.
His determination threatens my control of the situation and, intent on reclaiming it, I sink my teeth into his bottom lip. Marco utters an impatient noise, like a grunt and a growl and a whimper all bunched into one. Needy. Hungry.
For me.
The familiar regiments of logic and restraint eddy from my hazy brain as my new husband encourages me to continue grinding over his erection. My belly coils with delicious tension as he nips at the sensitive skin under my ear.
For a few selfish minutes, I don’t want to be Aldo Conti’s daughter.
I only want to stop feeling empty.
I suspend myself over him while he doubles his efforts, inducing a purely sinful sensation.
My pace quickens, my climax hovering just out of reach. The mattress squeaks with every push and pull, and I whimper in frustration. A chuckle escapes Marco, and I surge forward to bite his lip again, transforming the laugh into another indecent moan.
He and Father should thank me for saving their asses. I could run both families better than either one of these so-called dons.
I imagine Marco calling me boss—the way his lips would shape the words, the way he’d duck his head in obedience every time I entered a room—and gasp at the bolt of pleasure.
I trail my hands down his pecs, the muscled ridges solid beneath my fingertips, while his dick throbs between my legs. Straddling all this strength while knowing I’m in charge hurtles me toward the precipice.
“Oh, god.” A broken cry tears from my throat as my orgasm ripples through me, and I continue to ride Marco, drawing out every last ebb and flow until my limbs tingle. He groans as he follows me over the edge.
With my next shaky inhale, shame and disgust wash away the remaining heat. Still straddling him, I push myself onto my knees to recover, all the while bracing for a snide remark that never comes.
Instead, Marco releases a thick, rattling snore that could wake the dead. I exhale, the relief hitting me instantly.
“Everything all right in there?”
Ren’s deep baritone startles me, reminding me of what he just witnessed. Clenching my thighs, I concentrate on the rush of warmth rather than the unsettling realization that for a while there, I completely forgot about my act. “We’re done.”
He snaps open the linen curtains, his shoulders set in a tense line. His cold eyes rake over my husband and me, and I hold my breath as Marco unleashes another gravelly snore.
“Tonight was the easy part, Mrs. Argento.” His voice drops low. “I suggest you keep your marriage a happy one.”
Mrs. Argento.
His delivery contains a smooth yet lethal edge, and I don’t need any mirrors to spot the target on my back. The Council wants this union stable, which means our little husband-and-wife masquerade must continue.
I lift my chin and meet Ren’s eyes. “I intend to.”
He inclines his head with predatory grace. “Good. Your family’s in a vulnerable position. I recommend you act accordingly.”
I can’t decide if his words are a warning or a threat. Ren isn’t exactly known for his altruism, so I’m leaning toward the latter. In which case, Zanni may be looking for an excuse to work against me.
I peer down at Marco and correct myself.
Us. Zanni’s searching for an excuse to move against us.
Ren flicks his gaze down my body one final time before letting the curtains swing closed and turning to go, the door to our suite shutting silently behind him.
Finally alone save for a still snoring Marco, I collapse to the side, scrubbing my hands down my face. The Council has plans for the two of us, and I hate not knowing what they are. Not only that, but I’m literally in bed with a man I’ve considered my enemy for as long as I can remember.
It’s not exactly the wedding night I envisioned, but things could have been worse.
At least no one’s dead.
Yet.