Chapter 34
Raffaele
Warmth radiates against my chest as sunlight filters through the library windows, casting golden patterns across Alina’s naked body curled against mine.
The blanket I pulled over us sometime during the night barely covers her hip, revealing the curve of her ass and the pale expanse of her back. Possessiveness surges through me, hot and demanding. I trace my fingertips down her spine, feeling her stir beneath my touch.
“Mhmm,” she murmurs, stretching against me like a cat seeking warmth. Her eyes flutter open, blue and hazy with sleep. “Good morning, husband.”
“Good morning, wife,” I reply, my voice rough from sleep and the hours spent growling her name last night. I cup her cheek, thumb brushing across her lower lip. “How do you feel? Sore?”
She shifts, a slight wince crossing her features before melting into a shy smile. “A little. But I like it.” A blush spreads across her cheeks. “It reminds me of… everything.”
I can’t help the satisfied smirk that forms on my face. Good. I want her to feel me between her thighs all day, to carry the reminder of who she belongs to now. Who claimed her.
“Thank you,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to my palm.
“For what?”
“For the perfect wedding. The perfect wedding night.” Her eyes sparkle with something new—confidence, maybe. Or just the knowledge that she survived her first time and found pleasure in it.
My smirk widens as I slide my hand down her side, feeling her shiver under my touch. “If you liked last night, just wait until I get you to our destination.”
“Destination?” Her eyebrows furrow. “Wait, are you taking me to the bakery today?”
Chuckling, I glance toward the window, judging the time by the angle of the sun. “We need to get moving, or we’ll miss our plane.”
“Plane?” She bolts upright, the blanket falling away to expose her perfect tits. “What are you talking about?”
“Our honeymoon, Mogliettina.” I reach up to cup one breast, thumb circling her nipple until it hardens. “Did you think I’d marry you and not take you somewhere special?”
“Honeymoon?” The word comes out as a squeal. Before I can react, she’s straddling me, her warm core pressed against my rapidly hardening cock. “Where are we going? When did you plan this? What should I pack?”
She peppers me with questions, but all I can focus on is the press of her soft thighs around my hips, the bounce of her breasts as she gestures excitedly, the way her hair falls in wild tangles around her face.
Fuck, she’s beautiful like this—animated, excited, mine.
I grab her hips, rocking her against my hardness. “Keep moving like that and we’ll miss our flight for sure.”
Instead of surrendering to me, she grins. A mischievous expression I’m still getting used to seeing on her face. I’m even more surprised when she bends down to kiss me. It’s not the hesitant press of lips from weeks ago; it’s confident, demanding, her tongue sliding against mine.
Just as I’m about to flip her onto her back and fuck her again right here on the library floor, she pulls away, taking the blanket with her as she stands.
“Okay then,” she says with mock innocence. “We should get moving.”
I growl at the tease, watching her wrap the blanket around herself like a toga. Her ass peeks out from the bottom as she bends to collect her scattered clothing from last night, giving me a view that makes my mouth water.
“What time is our flight?” she asks, clutching her wedding dress to her chest.
I reach for my pants, fishing out my phone. “Soon,” I tell her, keeping it vague. Since we’re using the private Russo jet, it’s not like we’re in a rush. But I am. The sooner we leave, the sooner we arrive, and I want to be on the island the next time I sink into her cunt.
I fire off a quick text to Ian and Colin.
Me: We’ll be ready in two hours. Make sure everything’s prepared.
Their confirmation that everything is ready comes just as I finish buttoning my tux pants.
“Come on,” I say, standing and pulling Alina against me, blanket and all. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
When we stand just outside the master bedroom, I scoop her up and carry her across the threshold, much to her amusement.
“Put me down, you caveman,” she laughs. “You’ve already carried me more than you need to.”
“But not as much as I want to,” I reply while I set her on her feet.
The oversized shower beckons, and I turn on multiple jets, letting steam fill the space as I unwrap my wife from her makeshift toga.
She steps under the spray with newfound confidence, tilting her head back to wet her hair. Water cascades down her curves, highlighting every dip and swell that I spent hours exploring last night. I join her, grabbing the soap and working it into a lather between my hands.
“Turn around,” I command softly.
She obeys, presenting her back to me as I run soapy hands over her shoulders, down her spine, cupping her ass with both hands before sliding around to her stomach. I wash every inch of her with deliberate care, paying special attention to the tender flesh between her thighs.
When I kneel to wash her legs, I can’t help but notice the faint traces of dried blood on her inner thighs—evidence of her virginity given to me. Pride and possessiveness surge through me as I gently clean the area.
“My turn,” she says when I stand, taking the soap from my hands.
I watch her face as she explores my body with growing confidence, her small hands mapping the tattoos that cover my chest and arms. When she reaches my cock, her touch is tentative but curious, washing away the evidence of our coupling from last night.
Part of me hates to see her virginity blood wash away. It was a visible mark of my claim on her, proof that I was the first and only man to have her. But there will be other marks. Other claims.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, glancing up at me through wet lashes.
“You’re mine to stare at.” I capture her mouth in a heated kiss, backing her against the shower wall.
Her hands slide up my chest to my shoulders, her body arching into mine. We could easily fuck right here, right now, but we don’t have time. Instead, I content myself with the press of her wet skin against mine, the slide of her tongue against my own, the promise of what’s to come.
After the shower, I lead her to the closet, selecting clothing for both of us.
Comfortable stuff that won’t be annoying for the hours we’ll spend traveling.
For me, that means dark jeans and a button-down, foregoing my usual suit.
For her, I pick leggings and a tank top with a short-sleeved t-shirt and a cardigan.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing you this casual,” Alina remarks, her fingers tracing the collar of my shirt. “It’s strange.”
“Good strange or bad strange?” I ask, buttoning her cardigan for her, deliberately brushing my knuckles against her breasts.
“Just different.” She bites her lip, watching my hands work. “What should I pack?”
“Nothing,” I tell her, enjoying the confusion that crosses her face. “It’s all taken care of.”
“But—”
I silence her with a kiss. “Trust me, wife.”
Downstairs, we find Susan waiting with Onyx in her arms. The cat squirms free when he sees Alina, bounding toward her with surprising agility for an animal that usually limps.
“Be good for Susan,” Alina tells him, scratching behind his ears as he purrs loudly. “I’ll miss you.”
“He’ll be fine,” Susan assures her with a warm smile. “You two enjoy yourselves.”
I check my watch—a habit, not a necessity—and guide Alina toward the front door. “Our ride is waiting.”
Outside, a sleek black limousine idles in the driveway. My driver stands beside it, opening the door as we approach. He nods respectfully, his eyes carefully avoiding Alina as she slides into the vehicle.
“Everything’s arranged, boss,” he informs me quietly.
“Perfect.” I clap him on the shoulder before joining Alina in the back of the limo.
As we pull away from the mansion, she presses against my side, excitement radiating from her. “Will you tell me where we’re going now?”
I drape my arm across her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Away.”
“Away?” she frowns. “That’s all I get? ‘Away’?”
“For now.” I can’t help but enjoy her frustration, the way her brow furrows and her lips purse when she’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“Florida? The Bahamas? Antarctica? Japan? The moon?” She pokes my side. “Give me a hint.”
I capture her hand, bringing it to my lips. “Patience, Mrs. Brewer-Russo.”
“You’re impossible,” she huffs, but there’s no real irritation in her voice. Just excitement.
The vehicle glides to a stop on the private airstrip where the Russo family jet waits. I watch Alina’s eyes widen, her lips parting in surprise as she takes in the aircraft.
Her reaction feeds a primal need inside me. I want to provide, to impress, to show her that being mine means access to a world she’s never known.
“That’s yours?” she breathes, fingers pressed against the glass like a child at an aquarium.
“Ours,” I correct her, enjoying the way she blinks at the possessive pronoun. “It belongs to the Russo family.”
The driver opens my door, and I slide out, extending my hand to help Alina from the vehicle. The late-March wind whips across the tarmac, carrying the scent of jet fuel and impending rain.
I place my hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the aircraft where a uniformed attendant waits at the bottom of the steps.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Russo,” he greets us with practiced deference, his eyes carefully avoiding direct contact with mine. Smart man. “Everything is prepared for your journey.”
I feel Alina tense slightly beside me at the formality, the reminder of who—what—I am. But she says nothing, simply grips my hand tighter as we ascend the steps.
Inside the cabin, her tension dissolves into awe. The jet’s interior is a study in understated luxury—plush leather seats, polished walnut tables, chrome accents gleaming under soft lighting.
At the far end, a fully stocked bar shines with the promise of top-shelf liquor and crystal glassware.
“This is…” she trails off, running her fingertips over the butter-soft leather of the nearest seat.
“Take any seat you want,” I tell her, watching as she moves further into the cabin, exploring with childlike wonder.
She chooses a plush chair by the window, sinking into it with a small sound of pleasure that stirs my cock. I’m about to take the seat opposite her when she starts speaking.
“I’ve never flown before,” she confesses quietly, her fingers twisting together in her lap. “I’ve never even been to an airport.”
The admission strikes me harder than it should. Another reminder of how limited her world has been. How much there is to show her. How much power I have over her experiences now.
Somehow, I never even considered how scary it can be the first time you fly. Not willing to let her face it alone, I take the seat next to her instead.
“You’re nervous,” I observe, capturing her fidgeting hands.
She nods, chewing her lower lip. “Is it scary? Taking off? What about landing? Or—”
“No,” I lie smoothly, stroking my thumb over her pulse point. “It’ll all be fine. I promise.”
The pilot’s voice comes over the intercom, informing us we’re ready for departure. Alina’s hand tightens around mine, her knuckles whitening as the engines roar to life.
“Look at me,” I command softly when her eyes dart nervously to the window. “Just at me, Mogliettina.”
She obeys, her pale blue eyes locking onto mine as the jet begins to move, taxiing toward the runway. I keep her gaze captured with mine, a silent tether as we pick up speed.
“That’s my good girl,” I murmur, watching her pupils dilate at the praise. “Just breathe.”
The force of takeoff presses us back into our seats, and Alina gasps, her nails digging crescents into my palm. But she doesn’t look away, doesn’t close her eyes. She trusts me to guide her through this new experience.
The knowledge is intoxicating.
Only when we level off, the seat belt sign dimming with a soft chime, do I release her from my gaze. “There. Was that so bad?”
She exhales shakily, a smile tugging at her lips. “No. It was actually… exhilarating.”