Chapter 3
Chapter Three
A ntonio
I have to admit, my bride is exquisite. Her dark hair falls around her shoulders, framing a pale, heart-shaped face and intelligent blue eyes. Her perfection only heightens my thrill of victory at taking her from her intended future.
I have to firm my resolve to be cruel to her. It softened the moment I touched her–that’s the power of a beautiful woman.
This is how she tempted me to my demise the first time we met.
That doesn’t mean I won’t thoroughly enjoy taking her in hand.
I remain casual, one hand shoved in the pocket of my tuxedo pants, the other still extended to her in a gentlemanly manner.
“Last chance, Dahlia. Come and take your punishment willingly, or I’ll put you on clothing restriction.”
I just made that punishment up, but now that I conceived it, I desperately hope she’ll rebel.
Her pale cheeks flush with a peachy-pink, but she doesn’t move.
My dick punches out against the zipper of the tuxedo pants. I move swiftly, lunging across the bed to catch her, careful not to yank her or leave bruises as I haul her off.
She squirms and fights me, so I hold her in a simple restraint, my arms pinning hers to her sides, her soft backside pressed up against my lap.
After a moment, she stops struggling and twists to try to see me.
“Do I need to tie you up for your spanking, Principessa ?”
She glares at me.
I risk releasing her, moving slowly, and she remains still. I gently turn her and push her torso over the side of the bed. “Spread your legs, amore .”
She doesn’t obey–but I didn’t expect her to. I figure it’s enough she isn’t trying to claw my eyes out.
I unhook the train from her gown, then draw the zipper down the back of the dress until the entire thing falls in a white poofy puddle at her feet.
She’s not wearing a bra. She stands in her heels, garters, white silk stockings, and pair of white lacy panties that beg to be pulled down.
I hold my hand down between her shoulder blades and give her ass a slap–not too hard, not too soft.
Enough to make her gasp.
“When I give you an order, Principessa , I expect you to obey.” I pop her ass again–on the other side this time.
I repeat the action, spanking her on one cheek and the other a few more times, then I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her panties and slowly draw them down to her upper thighs.
She hunches her back, keeping her face tucked into the bedcovers.
“Good girl,” I praise her because she’s taking it well.
And because it pleases the fuck out of me to punish her.
So much more than I imagined.
When I thought about claiming Dahlia, it was solely for revenge. This society girl who was far too good for me seven years ago will now be completely under my thumb. I plan to frighten her. Cow her. Make her sorry she ever met me.
It was to punish her father, mostly, but also to teach the spoiled little rich girl a lesson.
Now that I have her in my bedroom, now that she’s my wife, my desire to punish her has morphed into something…more pleasurable. Definitely dirtier.
The best revenge of all will be to complete my debauchery of this perfect socialite. Train her to obey using pain and pleasure.
I stroke her bare flesh, noting the heat I’ve already produced, the redness of my handprints.
She twists to look over her shoulder at me with alarm, no doubt worried I intend to claim her virginity. I answer her look with a sharp slap.
She hides her face again.
I take my time, working slowly, enjoying the spring of her flesh under my palm, the slappy sound that fills the room. I’m not causing her real pain. It’s more an imposition of my will.
Dahlia gasps and wriggles, making my dick thicken, my balls grow heavy with need. But I meant what I said–I won’t force her. That’s a line I won’t cross.
I will just have to show her everything she’s been missing. Make her hot and trembly then deny her satisfaction. If I repeat that treatment often enough, she’ll come begging me for it.
I stop and slide two fingers between her legs. She’s not just wet. She’s dripping.
“Mmm. You’re already slick, Dahlia. Are you enjoying your spanking?”
“What? No!” she snaps, crossing her legs.
I chuckle. “Are you trying to alleviate that ache I’ve produced, bella ?”
She squeezes her inner thighs together even more tightly.
I return to spanking her, increasing the intensity until her entire ass is a lovely shade of pink.
“Open your thighs,” I command.
She doesn’t move.
I deliver a couple of hard swats–much harder than I was striking before–and she squeals. “Ow! Ouch! You’re hurting me.”
“Open, baby.”
She uncrosses her legs and parts them an inch.
I slide my fingers through her juices, rewarding her with pleasure.
She holds still this time as if listening to the movement of my fingers. As if she wants more.
I take my time, slowly exploring her folds. I circle her clit. Apply more pressure. She grinds against my fingertip. I wonder if she’s ever orgasmed. How closely she guarded that virginity. Did she mess around with other guys at balls? Do everything but give up her V-card?
That thought sends a spike of possessiveness through me. The desire to murder any boy who ever touched her.
I remove my fingers and give her a couple more punitive swats, even though she didn’t do anything to deserve them.
“Stop it!” she cries.
“You’ll take it however I give it, Principessa. That’s the way this is going to work.”
She reaches back and covers her ass. I gather her wrists at her lower back with one hand and return to my slow exploration of her folds. The tissue is already engorged, plump with excitement, blooming for me.
I listen for her quickening of breath. Find what makes her pussy clench and squeeze on air. I screw one finger into her tight entrance.
She’s definitely a virgin.
She goes still, her legs shivering, her belly lifting and falling with her panting breath. I’m gentle, working my finger in and out slowly, tracing it back up to her clit, then down to enter her again in a pleasure circuit.
A small puff of breath escapes her lips. Then a moan.
But I don’t give her satisfaction. I want her needy for me. Hungry.
I just give her a little taste of the pleasure I can deliver. Then I pull away. I sit beside her on the bed and tug her to sit on my lap.
“Punishment’s over. You took it well.” I kiss her bare shoulder, and she shivers.
“Why are you doing this?”
I stroke my palm along her bare side, relishing the feel of her soft skin. “Because I can, Principessa .” I trace a fingertip up the inside of her thigh, and she clamps her legs tightly together. Her pussy is still slick, leaving a track of wetness on my suit pants.
Her stomach rumbles, and she puts a hand over it like she’s embarrassed.
“You’re hungry.” I lift her off my lap, stand, and go to the door to speak to one of my men outside. When I turn back, I find Dahlia hurriedly trying to get back into her wedding dress.
“The clothing stays off.” I put an edge to my voice to let her know I won’t be defied.
She only tries harder to get the gown back in place to close the zipper.
“ Dahlia .”
She freezes and meets my gaze, her lips tight, her chin at a haughty angle.
“Don’t make me say it again.”
Her nostrils flare, and she doesn’t move for a moment, then she opens all her fingers at once and allows the weighty fabric to fall back to the floor.
“For how long?”
She’s smart. Asks the right questions. She definitely has an inner brat, but she knows when to bite her tongue or bide her time. She may have been thrust into the role of insipid socialite, but I suspect she sees through the lies of her existence. She has a grasp on–or wants to see–the bigger picture.
“Until you earn them back with good behavior.”
She puts her hands on her hips. I like the way she stands there, naked except for her garters, hose, and heels, and meets my gaze. I may have stripped her of her clothing, but she’s not grabbing fig leaves to cover up. Her pride is still intact. Her feminine will may be flexible–she chooses her battles–but it’s not weak. She’s still the feisty girl who sought me out at her coming out ball.
Her eyes narrow. “I won’t have sex with you.”
“So you’ve said. But you will obey me. I know you were raised to be a good little wife. Show me you’ll be that for me, and we’ll get along fine.”
Her eyes flash. “I was raised to be a president’s wife,” she spits. “Not a thug’s.”
There it is. The derision I expected from her. The belief that I’m not good enough for her. That I’ll ruin her pedigree.
Well, good. That was my fucking intention.
I arch a brow. “I seem to recall you being quite hungry for a taste of thug the first time we met.”
She flushes.
“So now you have me.” I spread my arms, but there’s no smile on my face. “And believe me, Dahlia, you’re getting what you deserve.”
She goes still, lips parting as she obviously tries to distill the meaning of my words.
As I suspected, she’s not an idiot.
She stalks quickly toward me. “ How did I deserve this? What did I do?”
I let her search me with her gaze, then I nod. “That is the mystery you must solve, no?”
Dahlia
I was raised to look pretty, have perfect manners, and be able to hold a conversation with anyone worthy of my attention. I also have a college degree from Smith, but it’s in music appreciation. Nothing has prepared me to manage a situation like this. Just like seven years ago, it’s apparent I’m completely out of my depth with Antonio.
A tap sounds on the door, and Antonio points at me. “Get under the covers, Dahlia.” There’s a sharpness to his tone, like me being seen naked by his staff is akin to an ambush situation.
Interesting. He wants me naked but only for his eyes.
I file that away. I need all the information I can, including all of this man’s quirks and weaknesses if I’m going to get myself out of this situation.
I show my obedience, as he requested, by kicking off my heels and climbing in the bed. I pull the covers up over my breasts. My body is still aflame from his punishment. The spanking was mild–I don’t think he meant to hurt me, it was more to dominate me. Humiliate me.
But my ass is tingling and warm now, and there’s a hot pulsing between my legs that makes me almost sorry I declared I wouldn’t have sex with my groom.
Two men come in–clearly both mafia–carrying a fully set table into the room. They remove covers from the food to reveal two plates, heaped high with a variety of foods. The delicious scent makes my stomach rumble.
A third man–also one of Antonio’s–carrying a bucket with a bottle of champagne on ice.
He speaks to Antonio in Italian, and when my new husband nods, he uncorks the champagne and pours it into two tall flutes.
When the staff–or thugs, or whatever they are–have left the room, Antonio pulls out one of the chairs for me and raises his brows expectantly.
I dutifully climb out of the bed and take the offered seat. As I draw close, my breath quickens, a tingle of awareness racing across my skin. His eyes darken as he traces the curves of my bare breasts with his gaze. I lift my chin, refusing to allow his perusal to make me blush and quiver.
Okay, fine, I might be quivering, but I refuse to show him that.
The corners of his lips tip up.
I keep my head high as I sit in the offered seat, and he pushes it in, like a perfect gentleman.
I pretend eating with no clothes on is the norm for me. I spread my napkin over my bare lap and wait for my new husband to settle into his chair.
He picks up one of the champagne flutes. Resolved to play his game until I can learn enough to get myself out of this, I pick up mine.
“To revenge,” he says.
Revenge . I guess I should have inferred that that was his game, but since I could think of no reason Antonio would have for revenge against me or my father, it didn't fully compute.
I hesitate, not lifting my glass to his. “Revenge for what?” I ask, even though I know he won't answer.
I watch his face as I ask the question. Rather than the glint of satisfaction, I see a stony hardness. He sets his champagne glass down without drinking from it. It’s as if whatever reason he has for revenge is real. He has been harmed.
But by my father? That seems hard to believe. What would he have to do with a man like Antonio?
Oh .
“He did something to you.” My breath gets caught up in my throat, drying it out. “My father? He did something to you at my debutante ball. What was it?”
Antonio's face remains granite. He doesn't move or speak.
Then he abruptly shucks his tuxedo jacket and removes one of his cufflinks. Slowly, methodically, he rolls up one sleeve to reveal a forearm of corded muscle. Halfway up his arm is some kind of tattoo with three cubes.
He points to it as if it means something. I have no idea what it could possibly mean.
“This is a prison tattoo.”
I wait, still not understanding.
“Do you know how I ended up in prison?”
Oh God. I'm suddenly terribly sick. The food that had smelled so good now turns my stomach.
I blink back tears. “Not–” I choke out–“not because of me?”
Antonio gives a single nod, his whiskey-colored gaze locked onto mine.
“But…how? You did nothing wrong. Did he say you…raped me?” My voice rasps out hoarse and dry.
Antonio gives a humorless chuff. “No. That would ruin your perfect reputation, Dahlia. And then your mayor wouldn't have you. No, he concocted a story about me stealing from him and paid off three witnesses to corroborate.
“That was after his security thugs broke four ribs, my nose, my cheekbone, and three teeth.”
Tears stream down my face. This can't be. No.
Yet, even though I've never seen my father show even the smallest amount of violence, I somehow know it's true. He's a ruthless businessman. He goes after his enemies and demolishes them. I just never considered that he might not stay within the lines of the law, or morality, for that matter.
“Antonio,” I choke. “I had no idea, I swear. I'm so sorry.”
“I believe you.” He looks at me coolly. “And thank you. But honestly, your being sorry takes some of my satisfaction away. So go back to being a snobby debutante, and I'll go back to torturing you.”
It takes me a moment to recover from the shock of his statement.
“For how long?”
“Hmm?”
“How long do you intend to torture me? When will it be enough to satisfy you? Is it not enough that you took King Yachts and embarrassed my father in front of all of New York society?
“Do you plan to keep me forever? I mean, how do you see this going? I'm going to have your babies? Be a good little mafia wife? Do you really want a loveless marriage?”
“Oh, that's right,” Antonio says. “Are you telling me you love your precious mayor?”
My face gets hot, not with embarrassment so much as the indignity of my entire life. The fact that I never had the option of love.
“No, but I didn't have any choice! You do. Why would you willingly choose this? Don't you believe in love?”
Antonio’s upper lip curls, but he says, “Sure. I believe in love. I'm doing this for love.”
I'm shocked by the heat of jealousy his words produce and the bile that rises to my throat. Is there someone else? A girlfriend he had to leave behind when he went to prison? “Love for whom?” I snap.
Antonio tips his head back slightly, looking down the column of his nose at me. “My mother.”
I blink. “What?”
He picks up a fork and points it toward my plate. “Eat, Dahlia.”
My stomach insists I obey him, despite my emotional upheaval. I pick up my fork and dip it into a fluffy pile of mashed potatoes drizzled in a Cabernet reduction sauce. Antonio cuts into his steak and pops a piece into his mouth.
We eat silently for a few moments, and I don't think he's ever going to elaborate, but after he takes his next bite, he says, “My mother always wished for me to have a legitimate life.” He takes a sip of champagne.
I pick up mine and drink down half of it.
“I was born into the Beretta family. My father died for la Famiglia when I was four years old. My mother wanted something different for me.
“She fought the family to keep me away from it all. That's why I was working for a catering company the night of your coming-of-age party. I could have been making bank on the wrong side of the law with my cousins, but I refused it all. I chose a legitimate path. And then I kissed the wrong girl.”
My chest tightens. “I'm sorry.”
“You were too big a temptation for me, I guess.”
I’m annoyed by my reaction to his words–the flush of pleasure that spreads from my chest down to the junction between my two legs.
His gaze takes on a smolder. “And now you are mine. Was I the first to slip you the tongue, Dahlia?”
Now the heat spreads across my chest and up my neck. Damn this man for having such an effect on me!
“Hmm? Was I?”
“No. But–” I break off before I reveal too much. But it was the first time I liked it. It was the first time I wanted more.
“But what?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
He arches a brow and waits, but there’s no way I’m going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his kiss changed my life.
The confident way he took my jaw in one hand and plunged his tongue in my mouth. His other hand, squeezing and kneading my ass. My body pulled up tight against his muscled frame. If we hadn’t been caught, I just might have given him everything that night, if he’d asked for it.
I’d considered myself a smart girl, but Antonio had turned my brain to mush with just one kiss.
“Will I be the first to put my tongue between your legs, Dahlia?”