Chapter 2
NICK
An hour later, after bringing Avery home, my fury still smolders. Those fucking vultures and their questions. If my main concern hadn’t been Avery’s safety and getting her the hell away from them, I would have preferred to take my anger out on the leering press.
My lawyer, Andrew Beckham, wouldn’t have liked it. But it sure as fuck would’ve calmed some of the rage hammering within me now.
I inhale a deep breath, recentering my thoughts around my fiancée, who’s nestled against me on the living room sofa.
She fits against me like she was designed to be there, her head tucked beneath my chin, her body warm and soft where it presses into mine.
My arm tightens around her, and I let myself breathe for what feels like the first time since we stepped onto that sidewalk and the cameras descended.
The penthouse is quiet. The lunch I made for us sits half-finished on plates in the kitchen.
Avery barely touched her food, and I couldn't bring myself to push.
Outside these windows, Manhattan sprawls indifferent and endless, but in here there's only us.
Only the steady rhythm of her breathing and the silk of her blouse smooth beneath my palm as I stroke her arm.
I keep seeing it. The way she froze when that first question hit. Convicted killer. Gold-digger. The flash of cameras like weapons, her hand trembling in mine as I hauled her through the gauntlet to the car.
My jaw tightens at the memory.
This is my fault. My world, my notoriety, my goddamn name stamped across everything I touch. Now it's marking her too. Dragging her into a spotlight she never asked for, exposing wounds she's spent years learning to carry quietly.
She stirs against my chest, and I realize my grip has gone rigid. I force myself to ease up, to gentle my hold, even as the anger still simmers beneath my skin.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly.
She tilts her head back to look at me, those green eyes soft with confusion. "For what?"
"For all of it." I brush a strand of blonde hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "The cameras. The questions. Everything my life brings down on you."
"Nick." Her hand comes up to rest against my jaw, her touch warm and grounding. "That's not your fault."
"Isn't it?" The question comes out rougher than I intended. "You didn't sign up for ambush journalism and shouted accusations when you agreed to marry me."
A faint smile curves her lips. "I knew what I was getting into."
But she didn't. Not really. I don't think either of us understood how relentless the scrutiny would become as the wedding approached.
Every detail dissected, every piece of her past exhumed and examined for maximum damage.
The thought of three hundred people watching her walk down that aisle while outside the church gossip rag cameras lurk in every corner waiting to capture every moment, makes something protective and fierce clench in my chest.
"We can scale it back," I hear myself say. "The wedding. Make it smaller, more private—"
"No." Her answer is immediate, certain. "We've planned this.
Our friends are coming, your foundation donors, everyone who matters to us.
" She pauses, and I watch her gather herself, that quiet resilience I've always admired rising to the surface. "We can’t disappoint everyone. I won’t let a bunch of uncomfortable questions and ugly accusations ruin our plans.
I just need a minute to... recalibrate."
Christ, this woman. Even shaken, even overwhelmed, she refuses to surrender ground.
"Whatever you need," I tell her. "More security. Different routes to avoid the press. Gabe and his team are already working on protocols for the next few weeks."
She nods slowly. "Okay. That helps."
"And if any of those bastards come near you again—"
"I know." Her thumb strokes along my jaw, and the tension in my shoulders eases slightly at her touch. She smiles up at me. "You'll handle it. You always do."
We fall into comfortable silence. Her hand drifts down to rest over my heart, and I wonder if she can feel how it beats for her, how it's been beating for her since the moment I first saw her painting and decided she was going to be mine.
I pulled her into my life, and she refused to be intimidated by anything I threw at her. Even the darkest parts of me.
My fingers trace idle patterns on her arm, and I'm acutely aware of every point where her body meets mine.
The curve of her hip against my thigh. The warmth of her breath through my shirt.
The memory of how she looked standing in that atelier, wrapped in a silk robe that gaped just enough to show me the lace beneath.
Evelyn's handiwork clinging to every curve while that shimmering veil cascaded down her back like something out of a fantasy I didn't know I had.
My bride.
She shifts slightly, tilting her face up, and when our eyes meet, the air between us changes. A current that's always present, finally being acknowledged. Her lips part. I watch her pulse flutter at the base of her throat.
"Nick." My name slips off her tongue, soft and wanting.
I don't make her ask twice.
Our kiss starts gentle—a question, an offering—but she answers by fisting her hand in my shirt and pulling me closer. I love knowing that it’s me she reaches for whenever she needs comfort. It’s my kiss that soothes her, even as it inflames her.
Something primal unfurls inside me as our mouths grow hungrier. My hand slides into her hair, tilting her head exactly where I want it, and I kiss her like I've been starving for her, like those hours apart while she was at her fitting were years instead of minutes.
She makes a small sound against my mouth, and the need that's been coiling low in my gut since I saw her in that robe finally snaps its leash.
I pull her across my lap in one fluid motion, settling her thighs on either side of mine. She comes willingly, eagerly, her hands braced on my shoulders as she looks down at me with flushed cheeks and darkened eyes.
"There she is," I murmur, my hands gripping her hips. "There's my girl."
"I'm right here." She rocks against me, and I groan at the friction, at the heat of her even through layers of clothing. "Right where I need to be."
"I know." I drag her down for another kiss, biting at her lower lip before soothing it with my tongue. "I need to feel you, baby. Need to remind myself you're safe, you're mine, that you're exactly where you belong."
My hands find the hem of her blouse, sliding beneath the silk to touch bare skin.
She shivers at the contact, arching into my palms as I trace up her rib cage, thumbs brushing the underwire of her bra.
I decide to leave it on her, lowering my head to suck at the thin lace that covers her hardened nipples.
"This is what I wanted to do at that atelier," I tell her, my voice ragged. "When I saw you standing there looking like every fantasy I've ever had. I wanted to peel that robe off you right there. Make everyone in that room watch while I claimed what's mine."
"Nick—" Her breath catches as I cup her breasts through the lace, feeling her nipples harden against my palms.
"Wanted to spread you out on that fitting room platform. In front of all those mirrors. Let you see how wet you get for me." I pinch lightly, and she gasps. "Would've made you come with my name on your lips while they all watched. My bride. My wife."
She moans my name, grinding against me now, desperate little movements of her hips that tell me exactly how much my words are affecting her. My cock is aching, straining against my pants, but I'm not done with her yet. Not even close.
"Stand up." It comes out as a command, rough with want.
She obeys immediately, rising on unsteady legs, and the sight of her, all flushed and disheveled, her blouse untucked and askew, makes my chest tight with something that goes far beyond lust.
I reach for the button of her jeans and flick it open, dragging the zipper down slowly. "Take these off for me."
She shimmies out of them, and I grip her hips to guide her back onto the sofa, positioning her against the cushions with her legs spread. Her panties are simple silk, cream-colored, already dark with wetness at the center.
"Look at you." I trace one finger along the damp fabric, and she whimpers. "So fucking wet. This all for me, angel?"
"Always," she breathes. "Only for you."
I hook my fingers in the waistband and drag the silk down her legs, tossing it somewhere behind me. She's bare now from the waist down, spread open on my couch, still wearing that cream silk blouse. The image is so carnal and beautiful I have to take a moment just to look.
Then I kneel on the floor between her thighs. I press a kiss to the inside of her knee. "I need to taste you. Need to feel you come apart on my tongue."
I take my time working up her thighs, kissing and biting the soft skin, letting the anticipation build until she's trembling, her hands fisted in the sofa cushions. When I finally drag my tongue through her center, she cries out—a sharp, broken sound that I feel in my cock.
She's slick and swollen and perfect, and I lick into her like I'm savoring a meal, like I could do this for hours and never get tired. My tongue traces patterns through her folds, circling her clit without giving her the direct pressure she needs, teasing until she's writhing beneath me.
"Please," she gasps, her fingers finding my hair. "Oh, God. Please, Nick—"
"Please what?" I pause long enough to meet her eyes, letting her see how much I'm enjoying this. "Tell me what you want."
"Your mouth. I need… I need more."
"More of this?" I seal my lips around her clit and suck, and the sound she makes is inhuman, a little feral, as her back arches off the cushions.
I work her mercilessly now, my tongue stroking fast and relentless while I slide two fingers inside her, curling to hit that spot I know drives her wild. She's clenching around me, soaked and desperate, her moans climbing higher with each thrust.
"That's it," I growl against her. "Let me feel you. Come for me, angel. Come on my tongue like a good girl."
She shatters.
Her whole body seizes, her pussy clamping down on my fingers, and she's crying my name over and over as the orgasm tears through her. I don't relent, working her through every wave until she's shaking and boneless, until her grip in my hair goes slack.
I press a final kiss to her inner thigh, then her hip, then rise up over her and take her mouth in a deep kiss, letting her taste herself on my lips. She moans into it, her hands clutching weakly at my shoulders.
"Bedroom," I rasp. "Now."
I don't give her time to respond. I scoop her up, and she wraps her legs around my waist instinctively, clinging to me as I carry her down the hall. The feel of her bare against me, wet and wanting, makes my hands shake as I lay her down on our bed.
I strip off my shirt, my belt, my pants—all of it discarded carelessly until I'm naked and hard and aching for her.
She watches me with heavy-lidded eyes, her blouse still hanging open around her.
I unbutton it the rest of the way and cast it aside, then I unclasp her bra and slide the delicate straps off her arms. Finally, she's bare beneath me.
Skin to skin. Nothing between us.
"In a few weeks," I tell her as I settle between her thighs, my cock nudging at her entrance, "you're going to walk down an aisle in that white dress I can’t wait to see on you. This whole city will see how gorgeous you are. What a fucking lucky bastard I am to have you."
I push inside her slowly, inch by inch, watching her face as she stretches to take me. Her mouth falls open, her eyes fluttering, and the wet heat of her gripping me is so perfect I have to grit my teeth against the urge to pound into her.
“And every single one of those people in that church is going to know that you belong to me. Only me. No one else.”
"Nick—" She wraps her legs around my hips, pulling me deeper. "God, yes."
"But this—" I’m buried to the hilt now, holding myself still as we both adjust. "This is ours. Just ours. Just you and me and the way you feel around my cock."
I start to move. Slow at first, deep and deliberate, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. Her nails rake down my back, and I welcome the sting, want the marks she's leaving on my skin.
"So tight," I groan against her throat. "So fucking perfect. You were made for me, angel. Made to take my cock exactly like this."
She's meeting me thrust for thrust now, her hips rising to match my rhythm, and I can feel her starting to climb again. The way her breath comes faster, the way she's clenching around me.
"Tell me who you belong to."
"You." The word is barely a whisper. "I belong to you, Nick."
"That's right." I angle her hips, changing the angle so I'm hitting deeper, harder. "You're mine. My wife. And I'm going to spend every day of our marriage showing you exactly what that means."
She's close. I can feel her climax building in her body, in the desperate sounds she's making, in the way her nails dig crescents into my shoulders.
I reach between us, my thumb finding her clit, stroking in tight circles as I fuck her harder. Her whole body tightens beneath me, her back arching, her breath coming in ragged gasps that match the rhythm of my thrusts.
"Come with me," I demand against her mouth. "I want to feel you."
She's right there, balanced on the edge, and I can feel my own release building, coiling tighter with every stroke. I thrust deep, grinding against her clit, and her fingers dig into my back as she cries out.
"Nick—"
"I've got you." I drive into her again, again, chasing the pleasure that's spiraling through both of us. "Let go, angel. I've got you."
Her orgasm crashes through her first, her pussy clenching around me so hard that my vision whites out at the edges. The feel of her coming undone beneath me—shaking, gasping my name—drags me over the edge with her.
I bury myself deep and let go, groaning into the curve of her neck as I spill inside her.
The rage from earlier has gone silent. The cameras, the accusations, all those nameless, faceless bastards waiting to pick apart our happiness—they can't touch us here. In this bed, in this moment, there's only Avery and me.
I’ve got the woman I love, warm and whole in my arms. I won’t let anything harm her.
Or there will be hell to pay.