Chapter 4
four
. . .
Sharon
I should be panicking. Should be calling someone—my mother, the police, a lawyer, anyone.
I should be clawing my way back to reason and reality.
But I'm standing in a penthouse that looks like something out of a magazine, floor-to-ceiling windows framing Las Vegas like a glittering promise laid out at my feet, and all I can feel is the ghost of his hand at the small of my back.
All I can think about is the way Fabio looked at me in that chapel, like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.
"Do you like it?" His voice comes from behind me, deep and quiet.
I turn to find him watching me, his dark eyes intense. He's removed his suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt to reveal powerful forearms corded with muscle. There's something about a man's forearms that's always gotten to me. Something about the strength on display, yet controlled.
"It's beautiful," I admit, because it is. Modern and sleek, but not cold. There are touches of warmth—books on shelves, a throw blanket draped over the couch, art on the walls that looks like it was chosen with care rather than by a decorator.
"Are you hungry?"
The question is so normal, so domestic, it almost makes me laugh. I accidentally married this man an hour ago, and he's asking if I want dinner.
"A little," I say, surprised to find it's true. The adrenaline crash is coming.
He nods once, pulls out his phone, and orders food without consulting me. I should be annoyed, but the way he does it—efficient, decisive—is strangely comforting. When he tells them "No shellfish," I raise my eyebrows.
"How did you know I'm allergic?"
A small smile touches his lips. "You mentioned it to the wedding planner when I was standing nearby. Something about being careful with the caterers."
The fact that he was paying that much attention makes my stomach flip. "Oh."
"I'll show you where you can freshen up. The food will be here in twenty minutes."
He leads me down a hallway lined with more art—modern pieces with bold colors—and opens a door to a guest bedroom that's larger than my entire apartment.
The bed is king-sized, covered in what looks like absurdly expensive sheets.
There's an en-suite bathroom with a shower big enough for four people.
"There are clothes in the dresser," he says. "They might be a bit big, but they'll do for tonight. We can get you whatever you need tomorrow."
"Thank you," I say, because what else can I say?
"Take your time. Come out when you're ready." He pauses, then adds, "Or don't. If you need space, that's okay too. I can have dinner sent in."
The consideration in the offer throws me off balance again. He's not what I expected. Not what anyone would expect from looking at him—this powerful man with dangerous eyes who's treating me like I might break if he moves too quickly.
"I'll come out," I tell him, and the smile he gives me in return makes my knees weak.
When the door closes behind him, I sit heavily on the edge of the bed. What the hell am I doing here? What am I thinking? I should call a cab, go home, pretend this never happened.
But then I remember the feeling of his lips on mine, his hands cradling my face like I was precious, and my body responds with a rush of heat so intense it makes me gasp.
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection. I look the same—same brown eyes, same dark hair, same ordinary features. But I feel different. Charged. Like I've been sleepwalking through life and just woke up.
I find a t-shirt in the dresser and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring I can tighten. They're still huge on me, but clean and soft. I roll up the pant legs and head back out to the main room.
Fabio has set the dining table—actual plates and silverware for takeout food. He's opened a bottle of wine. He looks up when I enter, his eyes sweeping over me in the too-big clothes, and there's something possessive in his gaze that should scare me but doesn't.
Dinner is surprisingly easy. He asks me questions about myself—where I grew up (Colorado), what I do (florist and wedding assistant), what I like to read (everything)—and listens to my answers like they're fascinating.
He doesn't volunteer much about himself unless I ask, and when I do, his answers are brief but honest. He's in finance, he says.
Has business interests across the country. Travels a lot.
It's what he doesn't say that speaks volumes. The way his phone keeps buzzing but he ignores it. The way the security guard checked in once, speaking in what sounded like code. The way he carries himself, always aware of exits, of positions, of potential threats.
This is not a normal man. This is not a safe man.
So why do I feel so safe with him?
After dinner, he shows me back to the guest room, not pushing, not presuming. His hand brushes mine as I pass him in the doorway, and electricity zips up my arm.
"Goodnight, Sharon," he says, my name like a prayer on his lips.
"Goodnight, Fabio."
Alone in the room, I lie on the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. The events of the day replay in my mind on a loop—the mix-up, the ceremony, the feeling of his mouth on mine. The way he said "You're mine now" like it was simple fact.
I close my eyes and his face is there, those dark eyes intense on mine. I can almost feel his hands—large, strong, surprisingly gentle—on my skin again. My body responds instantly, heat pooling between my thighs.
This is insane. I don't know him. Don't know anything about him except that he's powerful and rich and looks at me like he wants to devour me whole.
But God help me, I want his hands on me again.
My own hand slides down my body, slips beneath the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants.
I'm already wet, embarrassingly so. I circle my clit with two fingers, thinking of his mouth, his hands, his body pressing mine into this mattress.
I imagine his weight on top of me, pinning me down, those dark eyes watching me come apart beneath him.
I gasp as pleasure builds, quick and urgent. It's never been like this before—never so fast, so intense. Like my body knows something my mind doesn't.
I'm close, so close, when a knock sounds at the door.
"Sharon?" His voice, low and concerned. "Are you alright?"
Fuck. Did he hear me? Heat floods my face.
"I'm—I'm fine," I manage to call out.
A pause. Then: "May I come in?"
I should say no. Should tell him to go away. Instead, I hear myself say, "Yes."
The door opens slowly. He stands in the frame, still fully dressed except for his shoes, watching me with those intense eyes. They sweep over me—my flushed face, my hand still frozen beneath the waistband of the sweatpants—and darken with understanding.
"Don't stop on my account," he says, his voice a low rumble that makes me shiver.
"I wasn't—" I start to lie, then stop. What's the point? He can see right through me.
He steps into the room, closes the door behind him. "Were you thinking about me?"
I nod, unable to speak.
He comes to the bed, sits on the edge of it, not touching me yet. "Show me."
My breath catches. "What?"
"Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me."
I should be embarrassed. Should tell him to get out. Instead, I find myself sliding my hand deeper, two fingers slipping inside while my thumb works my clit. His eyes never leave my face, watching every flicker of expression.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise makes me whimper.
Then he's beside me, one hand tangling in my hair, tilting my head back to expose my throat. "Let me," he says against my skin, and then his hand is replacing mine, larger, stronger, more skilled.
I cry out as his fingers slide inside me, finding places I didn't know existed. His mouth claims mine, swallowing my moans as he works me expertly.
"You're so wet," he groans against my lips. "So fucking perfect."
I'm lost, drowning in sensation, my hips rocking against his hand. He whispers filthy, beautiful things—how good I feel, how perfect, how he knew from the moment he saw me that I'd be this responsive, this sweet.
When I come, it's with his name on my lips, my body arching off the bed. He holds me through it, his eyes never leaving my face, like my pleasure is a gift he's been waiting his whole life to receive.
Afterward, he doesn't stop. He undresses me slowly, reverently, pressing kisses to each newly exposed inch of skin. By the time he removes his own clothes, I'm ready again, aching for him.
When his mouth drops to my inner thigh, I gasp. He leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along sensitive skin, moving steadily higher. His dark eyes flick up to mine, holding my gaze as he settles between my legs.
"I need to taste you," he growls. "Been thinking about this since I first touched you."
The first swipe of his tongue makes me cry out. My fingers twist in the expensive sheets as he devours me like a starving man. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider for his mouth. I can't look away from the sight of his dark head between my legs, his broad shoulders keeping me open for him.
"Oh God," I whimper, my hips rising to meet his mouth.
He hums against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body. Through half-lidded eyes, I notice his right arm moving rhythmically. He's touching himself while he tastes me. The realization makes my core clench tight.
"Are you—?" I can barely form the question.
He lifts his head just enough to answer, his lips glistening with my arousal. "Can't help it. The way you taste..." He groans, his arm still working steadily. "The sounds you make..."
Then his mouth is on me again, more urgent now.
His tongue circles my clit with devastating precision while his free hand slides two thick fingers inside me.
The combination is too much. I'm already sensitive from my first orgasm, and the knowledge that he's pleasuring himself while pleasuring me pushes me over the edge.
"Fabio!" I cry out, my back arching off the bed.
He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down. If anything, he doubles his efforts, drinking in my release like it's sacred. His own movements grow more frantic, his groans vibrating against my flesh.
When he finally tears his mouth away, his face is transformed with pleasure. He rises to his knees, his hand working furiously over his impressive length. His eyes never leave mine—dark, intense, possessive.
"Watch me," he commands, voice strained. "Watch what you do to me, angel."
I can't look away. His powerful body is taut with restraint, muscles flexing with each stroke. He's magnificent—sculpted and scarred and perfect. I've never seen anything so erotic in my life.
When he comes, it's with my name on his lips, his release spilling over his fist. The sight is so intimate, so raw that I feel tears prick my eyes.
After, he cleans us both with gentle efficiency, then slides into bed beside me. His arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest. I should feel trapped. Instead, I feel protected.
"Sleep now," he murmurs against my hair. "I've got you."
And for the first time since I stumbled into that chapel, I believe him completely.