Chapter 4
Chapter Four
A ntonio
Dahlia slaps her legs together, her pupils flaring. “Don’t be crass.” She applies her focused intention to her steak, forcefully cutting it and stabbing it with her fork.
I can tell by her blush that I will claim that first from her as well.
Good. Despite four years at college–a women’s college, thank fuck–she is still the sweet virgin her family purported her to be.
I sit back, enjoying her reaction to my words.
Her nipples have beaded up, and there are two spots of high color on her cheeks. She wants my head between those creamy white thighs of hers.
And now that I’ve mentioned it, she probably won’t stop thinking about it.
“I’m not being crass, darling. I’m telling you how I will express my love in our marital bed.” I take a leisurely sip of my champagne.
Dahlia downs the rest of her glass and reaches for the bottle, which is standing in the ice bucket. She pours herself another generous glass and drinks down another four gulps.
“I can make you tremble and beg for it.”
She lets out a little puh of air.
“I can. All I have to do is push those knees wide and part your lips with my thumbs to expose that pretty pink center for my tongue.”
She blushes a deeper shade of pink, and her gaze flicks from her plate to mine three times.
“I'll swirl my tongue around your inner lips. Stroke your pleasure center. Maybe use my fingers a little. Massage your asshole as I do it.”
“Stop!” Her fingers shake as she puts the next bite in her mouth. I suspect no one has spoken to Dahlia of pleasure before. Maybe she thought sex was something to be taken by a man. Something she must give up, but not enjoy. Maybe she has no idea how wonderful I can–and will–make her feel.
“Now you’re just trying to get a rise out of me.”
“Not trying.” I smirk. “ Succeeding . But it’s all true, amore . I know how to please a woman. How to use my tongue in ways that will make you scream for more.”
Her nostrils flare. “I don’t want to hear about your exploits with other women.”
There’s a note of jealousy to her tone that I find deeply satisfying.
I’m certainly a jealous man. Dahlia may not have given me her heart or her body yet, but she definitely belongs to me. The sense of possessiveness I feel goes to my very core.
“No? I thought perhaps you were encouraging me to seek my pleasure outside of the marital bed. Or will you receive the pleasure I can give you?”
Her jaw thrusts forward in anger as she sets her fork down. “ No .”
“No to which?”
“Both.”
She answers immediately, sending another surge of satisfaction blasting through my chest.
“You want me to remain faithful?”
She narrows her eyes to a murderous gaze.
I want to push her into complying with my demands, but I suspect she hasn’t been sufficiently tempted yet.
“You won’t leave this yacht until you’ve spread those pretty legs for me. But I understand you’re still angry. I’ll give you a week, Principessa. A week to get used to your change in husband. After that, if you’re still making me wait, I will be giving my attention to another woman.”
Dahlia looks ready to throw her food in my face. “And if…if I have let you…”
I enjoy watching Dahlia struggle to find the words, but let her off the hook. “If I have a legitimate wife, I will be faithful to her.”
I swear to Christ, I watch Dahlia’s neck grow longer, her back straighter, like a flower that just found light.
“You would be a faithful husband.” I hear disbelief in the statement.
I nod. “I just married a beautiful woman. Why would I stray?”
I know she likes my words because she flushes as she picks up her forks and resumes eating.
“I do intend to teach my wife all manner of pleasure,” I tell her casually, like sex isn’t a taboo subject at the dinner table. “I’ll find what makes her squirm.”
Dahlia squirms.
“What makes her scream.”
Her thighs clamp together.
“I’ll figure out what gets her excited and make sure she gets a dose of it every day.”
She guzzles the rest of her champagne. “That’s, um…that’s very bold of you.”
“It’s not bold for a man to want to keep his wife satisfied. I will provide for you, Dahlia. Keep you in the same manner you’ve become accustomed to living. I’ll give you what you need in bed and be faithful to you.”
I say nothing of my own satisfaction for the moment. Once she’s surrendered herself to me, I will make my demands. Until then, she requires a lighter touch.
“Naturally, I expect the same respect in return. You touch another man, and he dies. Remember that before you curse a man to his death.”
Dahlia
Antonio gives me a chilling smile, and a shiver runs up my spine at his threat.
I believe him. I believe this man is a killer. I shudder to think of the crimes he's committed. The darkness that surrounds him.
And he wants my name to be attached to his for the rest of our lives.
No, thank you.
No way.
I have to find a way out of this.
I toss my napkin over the plate and stand. My dramatic exit is diminished greatly by the fact that I’m naked and, therefore, have nowhere to go.
But my suitcase should’ve been brought to the yacht yesterday in preparation for our honeymoon. I pull open one of the drawers and find my clothing neatly folded and put away. I pull out a pair of panties.
Antonio tsks. “We’re working on obedience, Principessa . I didn’t say you could wear panties.”
I’m too cowed by him at the moment to put up a fight, so instead, I throw the panties on the floor like a spoiled child and stalk into the bathroom.
I could use a shower, anyway.
I need to wash this day off of me. Get my bearings. Figure out my next move.
I shut the door and lock it and take the world’s longest shower. When I’m finished, I take another half an hour to brush out my hair, apply lotion, and generally stall.
I half-expect Antonio to demand I come out or demand admittance, but he leaves me alone.
Finally, when I’ve grown sick of the small quarters, I emerge with a towel wrapped firmly up to my armpits.
The dinner table and champagne bucket have been removed.
Antonio lounges on the bed with his ankles crossed reading a newspaper. He’s still in his tuxedo pants, but the tie is gone, and his crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. I hate how devastatingly handsome he looks.
This man is a thug who spent time in prison, yet he looks every inch the aristocrat. I hate to admit it, but he embodies “Yacht King” so much more than my father did. I imagine he will run a ruthless business. Probably get us back into the black.
Us . I don’t know why I’m saying us.
It’s not my family’s business anymore, and I’m not sticking with Antonio to make it mine through him.
“Are you sleeping in here?” I ask doubtfully. I mean, I guess that’s obvious. He’s my husband. We share a bed. He wants to consummate.
It’s just that I hadn’t considered how it would feel to climb under the covers– naked –with this extremely good-looking, muscular, and well, virile man.
Not that I’m tempted to consummate.
I’m not.
It’s just…awkward to say the least.
Antonio uncrosses his ankles and sets the newspaper down on the bedside table. He stands from the bed and throws the covers back. “Are you ready for bed, darling?”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, not moving any closer to the bed.
“What, darling ? Why not?”
“Because you don’t mean it.”
“No, I suppose I don’t,” he admits. “I am taunting you.” His gaze holds a challenge.
I meet it. I don’t know what it is about this man that makes me bold.
I was bold that night of my debutante ball when I demanded a drag from his cigarette.
I was bold when I took his hand and let him pull me into the supply closet for the most sinful kiss of my life.
Now, another surge of rebellion rises in me, and I drop my towel. “And I’m taunting you.”
The move has its desired effect.
Antonio’s gaze jerks to my breasts, then travels lower, to the downy patch of hair between my legs. His jaw clenches and nostrils flare. “That’s a dangerous game, Dahlia.” His voice is soft. Soft enough to make me shiver with the implied threat.
It occurs to me that I’ve bitten off far more than I can chew. Still, I hold my ground, shoulders squared, breasts presented for his admiration. “You said you wouldn’t rape me.”
He prowls around the bed to my side.
It takes all my courage to hold my ground. To not bolt for the bathroom and lock the door once more.
He stalks closer and with each step, my heart picks up speed. My hands are clammy by my sides. My mouth is suddenly flooded with saliva, as if Antonio is something delectable to eat.
“It looks to me,” he rumbles in a deep purr, “that you're begging to be touched.”
He arrives in front of me and brushes the backs of his knuckles over the tip of my beaded nipple.
I can't suppress the shock of pleasure that ripples through me. The outward shiver that gives me away.
“Do you want me to touch you, Dahlia?” He pinches my nipple lightly between two of his knuckles and tugs. “Do you want me to show you the kind of pleasure I was describing over dinner?”
My breath comes in with tiny gasps and pants.
“N-no.” I'm not very convincing. The truth is, now that he's standing here before me, over six feet of glorious muscle and man, I do want him to touch me.
I want to find out exactly what he meant about pleasuring me with his tongue.
I'm not completely ignorant nor innocent. I certainly know how to use my own fingers to bring myself pleasure. I’ve used a pillow between my legs at night.
And every single time I was fantasizing about this man right here.
And now to find out that he does hold all the sexual secrets I imagined, that I may not have built him up to be something he wasn’t, it’s all just too much.
One of Antonio's large hands settles on my hip, and the warmth of his roughened palm against my skin generates heat in my core. He continues to tease my nipple. It’s starting to burn and tingle, making me needy for more.
Between my legs, there’s an answering pulse. Hot, tender neediness that squeezing my thighs together doesn’t alleviate. He trails his fingers lightly over my hip, then down the side of my thigh.
I try to suppress the trembling that started in my legs.
His fingertips trace up my buttocks. “Do you think your precious mayor could make you feel this way, Dahlia?”
“He's not my precious mayor,” I choke out. I don't know why I give Antonio the satisfaction, though.
Antonio shifts his fingers from my nipple to lightly trace up the column of my neck until his index finger arrives at my chin. He gently nudges it up until I look him in the eye. “No?”
I find myself shaking my head. “It was an arranged marriage.”
“Like ours,” he says as if satisfied.
“This was not an arranged marriage. You stole me from my groom!”
As soon as I speak the words, I wish I hadn't because Antonio's face darkens, and he takes a step back from me. I immediately register the loss of his touch. Crave his attention.
“Ah, yes. A groom far more worthy of the yacht princess. Too bad. You're cursed to slumming with a blue collar brute for the rest of your days, Principessa .”
My stomach knots as I realize the bitterness in Antonio's tone is borne of the degradation and treatment he received at the hands of my father and our penal system.
I'm sure the jury took one look at the working-class son of Italian immigrants and assumed he'd done everything my father accused him of.
“I don’t believe you’re a thief, Antonio.” I make my voice soft. Conciliatory.
Antonio’s eyes narrow. He holds my jaw with an overhand grip “You should.” He brings his face close to mine. So close I feel the heat of his breath feathering over my lips. “Believe it, Dahlia. Know that I’m going to keep on stealing from you for the rest of your life.”