Chapter 32
Raffaele
Icarry Alina through the dimly lit hallways of my mansion, her body cradled against my chest, the scent of her perfume mingling with the vanilla sweetness of cake still on her breath.
One of her arms is looped around my neck, trusting me completely with her weight. I fucking love that she isn’t making excuses or trying to get me to put her down. Not that I would. But she’s come a long way, and I couldn’t be prouder.
The thought stirs something primal in my chest—this urge to protect, to possess, to cherish. I push the feeling aside as I approach the library door, kicking it open with more force than necessary.
Inside, the fire roars in the hearth, casting long shadows across the bookshelves and the chessboard set perfectly on the table where we last left it.
This room holds the history of us. Every match we’ve played, every piece captured, every strategy revealed. It was here that I first saw beyond Alina’s fear to the steel beneath, here that I watched her transform from a trembling captive to a woman who would meet my gaze without flinching.
The memory of her determination sends heat coursing through me.
I move toward the couch, intending to lay her down, to finally claim what I’ve been denied for too long. But she places her hand against my chest, halting me with a touch so light it shouldn’t have any power.
“Not yet,” she whispers, blue eyes gleaming in the firelight.
“Alina,” I growl, her name a warning. My patience has limits, and I’ve been pushed to the edge watching her all evening in that dress, knowing what lies beneath, what awaits me.
“Please,” she adds, and just like that, my resistance crumbles. I set her on her feet.
To my surprise, she lowers herself to the thick rug before the fire, tucking her legs beneath her, careful to arrange her dress modestly.
She gestures to the chessboard. “Bring it here,” she says. “I want to play.”
“Play?” I arch an eyebrow, disbelief warring with amusement. “It’s our wedding night, Mogliettina.”
“I know.” A smile plays at the corners of her mouth, a new confidence in her eyes that I haven’t seen before. “But this is where it all started. You and me. The chess games. I want one more before…” She trails off, her cheeks flushing pink.
Curiosity outweighs my impatience. I retrieve the board and pieces, setting them carefully on the rug between us as I sit across from her. The fire crackles beside us, sending waves of heat across my skin.
“And what are the stakes of this game, Mogliettina?” I ask, arranging the pieces with practiced movements.
Her eyes meet mine over the board, a flicker of mischief in their blue depths. “If you win,” she says, her voice steady despite the blush deepening on her cheeks, “we’ll have sex.”
I smirk, reaching out to run my thumb along her lower lip. “And if you win?”
“We have sex.” The simple declaration, delivered with such innocent conviction, pulls a genuine laugh from me.
“A win-win proposition,” I observe. “I’m impressed, Piccola. You’ve learned to negotiate.”
“I had a good teacher.” She moves her first pawn forward, the traditional opening.
I counter with my own move, watching her face as she studies the board. Her wedding ring glints on her finger as she reaches for another piece.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, not looking up from the board.
“You’re mine to stare at,” I counter, my voice rougher than intended. “Mine to touch. Mine to take.”
Her breathy laugh is all the answer I get as we start trading moves for real. It’s nothing like the hesitant game we played the first time I suggested it. She’s still not a champion, but, fuck me, one day she will be. Especially if she continues to learn this fast.
Her breath catches, her fingers faltering on her bishop. She looks up at me through her lashes, a smile curving her lips. “Well, well, well,” she laughs, sliding her queen diagonally across the board. “Check.”
I glance down, surprised to find my king indeed threatened. I’ve underestimated her again, distracted by the swell of her breasts above her dress’ neckline, by the memory of how she tastes. I move my king out of danger, refocusing on the game.
“Better,” she approves, leaning forward to consider her next move. The motion gives me a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage, and I wonder if the distraction is deliberate.
Two can play that game. I reach across the board, capturing her hand instead of a chess piece. Bringing it to my lips, I press a kiss to her palm, then to the inside of her wrist where her pulse flutters like a trapped bird.
“Raffaele,” she breathes, her pupils dilating as I trace the veins on her wrist with my tongue. “That’s cheating.”
“All’s fair in war,” I murmur against her skin. “And this is definitely war.”
She pulls her hand free with reluctance, returning her attention to the board. But her focus is fractured now, her breathing uneven. She moves her knight without her usual careful consideration.
I seize the opportunity, advancing my bishop to a strategic position. “Check,” I announce, watching her face as she realizes her error.
She frowns, shifting her king to safety. But the damage is done; she’s on the defensive now, and we both know it. Still, she rallies admirably, forcing me to work for every advantage.
Between moves, I steal kisses, light brushes of my lips against hers that deepen when she sighs into my mouth. Each touch grows more heated, more desperate.
By the time I back her king into a corner, her lips are swollen from my kisses, her hair falling loose from its careful styling. I capture her final defending piece, leaving her king exposed.
“Checkmate,” I declare, my voice hoarse with need.
She stares at the board for a long moment, then raises her eyes to meet mine. No disappointment there—only heat, anticipation, surrender.
“You win,” she whispers.
“We both win,” I correct her, reaching out to cup her cheek. “That was the deal.”
Her smile is radiant, transforming her face. With newfound grace, she rises to her feet, the white dress cascading around her. She steps around the chessboard, pieces scattering as her skirt brushes them aside.
“Undress me, husband,” she commands, her voice steady despite the tremor I can see in her hands.
The words shoot straight to my dick, hardening it painfully against the confines of my pants. I rise slowly, towering over her, enjoying the way she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.
This is not the same woman who cowered from me not too long ago. This is someone new—someone born from the forge of our strange circumstances.
“With pleasure,” I growl, spinning her around and reaching for the first tiny button at her spine.
I work each tiny button of Alina’s wedding dress with deliberate slowness, savoring the gradual revelation of her skin. Each new inch exposed is a victory, a treasure claimed, a territory conquered.
The dress has what feels like a hundred buttons running down her spine, each one a test of my patience. I could rip the fabric apart with my bare hands—tear it from her body in seconds—but that’s not what this moment deserves.
So I restrain the animal clawing inside me, focusing instead on the delicate task of unwrapping my bride properly. As each button comes undone, I press my lips to the newly exposed flesh, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling the shiver that runs through her with each touch.
“Raffaele,” she whispers, my name a prayer on her lips.
“Patience, Piccola,” I murmur against her shoulder blade. “I’ve waited too long for this to rush it now.”
Finally, the last button yields, and the dress loosens around her body. With reverent hands, I push the fabric from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. She stands before me in nothing but lace panties, the firelight casting golden shadows across her pale skin.
My breath catches at the sight of her. The curves I’ve touched and tasted over the past weeks are somehow more perfect tonight.
The gentle swell of her hips, the softness of her stomach, the full weight of her breasts—all mine. All mine to claim.
She crosses her arms over her chest, an instinctive attempt to hide that I will not allow.
“Don’t,” I command, gently pulling her arms to her sides. “Never hide from me.”
“I’m not perfect,” she whispers, a vulnerability in her blue eyes.
“You’re perfect to me,” I tell her, meaning every word. I trace the line of freckles across her collarbone with my fingertip, following them down to the swell of her breast. “Every inch of you is exactly as it should be.”
She swallows hard, then reaches for me with trembling hands. “My turn,” she says, reaching for my tie and quickly getting rid of it.
I stand still, allowing her this exploration. While her inexperienced fingers work each button free, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. When she pushes the shirt off my shoulders, her eyes widen at the full sight of my tattooed torso.
“You’re beautiful,” she breathes, trailing her fingertips along the wolf on my ribs, tracing the S.P.Q.R. letters with something like reverence.
I’ve been called many things in my life—dangerous, ruthless, merciless, asshole—but beautiful has never been one of them. Coming from her lips, I almost believe it.
She moves to my belt next, her fingers hesitating only briefly before unfastening it. The whisper of leather sliding through belt loops fills the silence between us. My pants follow, pushed down my legs until I kick them aside.
I stand before her in nothing but black boxer briefs, my erection straining against the fabric.
Her gaze drops to it, her cheeks flushing a delicious pink. “Well, I guess you’re ready,” she laughs nervously.
“We’ll take it slow,” I say, cupping her face in my hands. “Trust me, wife.”
“I do,” she replies, the simplicity of her answer striking me like a physical blow. Trust. Such a small word for such an enormous gift. One I intend to savor all night long.