Chapter 21 Annie
ANNIE
My heart is pounding as I go to the bedroom to get something to change into. I want out of this wedding dress—want to burn it, frankly—and I need to scrub everything that’s happened to me today off of my skin before Elio touches me.
Before we consummate our marriage.
The thought makes my pulse flutter in my throat. Eleven years ago, Elio and I came so close to doing exactly this. And then, just when I thought he was going to be my first, when I thought he was going to take what I was begging him to let me give, he stopped.
He got up and told me he couldn’t. That he was leaving for Chicago. That my father and brother would kill him if they knew he’d ever touched me at all—a conversation we’d had before, over and over again. That he wasn’t good enough for me.
That he’d never be someone they’d allow me to be with. To marry. To love.
I wanted him to fight for me. To stand up to them and do what every romance novel, every fairy tale had ever told me he should—tell my father and Ronan that he wasn’t going to leave. That he wasn’t going to abandon me. That I was everything to him.
That he loved me.
Now, eleven years later, he is fighting for me. And we’re married.
He’s about to be my first.
And somehow, it feels all wrong.
He’s doing this because there’s no other way out.
He didn’t marry me today because he loves me—he married me because I was right—it was the best way to cut off Desmond’s planned revenge at the knees.
And he isn’t going to fuck me tonight because he wants me—he’s going to do it because we need this marriage to be as real as it possibly can be.
I know he does want me. Every time we’ve tested those lines so far has been proof of that. But nothing about tonight is about desire or love.
Just necessity. The thought makes my chest ache.
I strip off the bloody wedding dress, throwing it into a pile in a corner of the bathroom, and turn the shower on as hot as I can stand.
I step under the spray, letting the water wash everything away.
I scrub my skin until it's pink, washing away any lingering trace of Desmond's touch, any memory of his hands on my arms, his breath on my neck.
By the time I'm done, I feel raw and clean and new.
The problem is what to wear after. I don't have anything remotely appropriate for a wedding night. No silk nightgown, no delicate lingerie. Nothing like what I would have bought for an actual wedding. Just practical clothes from the list I gave Elio’s security to pick up for me.
I settle on a simple cotton tank top and sleep shorts—the closest thing I have to sleepwear—and stare at myself in the mirror.
This is not how I imagined my wedding night would be.
No romantic hotel suite, no rose petals on the bed, no champagne.
No breathless anticipation all night, or Elio taking me out of the wedding gown I chose for our marriage.
Just me in cotton pajamas, about to sleep with a husband who married me out of necessity rather than love.
But when I open the bathroom door and see Elio sitting on the edge of the bed, all my self-consciousness evaporates.
He's changed too—just loose sleep pants and a T-shirt—and he looks up when I enter with an expression that makes my knees weak. There’s desire in his eyes, regardless of why we’re here; a look of need on his face as his gaze sweeps over me that makes my breath catch.
"Come here," he says softly.
I cross the room on unsteady legs and stand in front of him. He reaches out and takes my hands, pulling me closer until I'm standing between his knees.
"You're nervous," he murmurs.
"A little," I admit. "Is that stupid? We're married. We've already—you've already touched me before."
"This is different." His thumbs stroke over my knuckles. "And you're allowed to be nervous. Hell, I'm nervous."
That surprises me. "You are?"
"Annie, you're trusting me with something you can never get back. Your first time. That's—" He shakes his head. "That's not something I take lightly. You should know that.”
Of course I know that. I can’t smell sunwarmed grass or hay without remembering Elio’s hands on me that afternoon, eleven years ago, his body hovering over mine, stripped down to his boxers and me in my T-shirt and panties.
Can’t put on a wool sweater without remembering how the blanket felt against my skin.
We were so young. It was probably the right decision, then.
But I’ve never gotten over wanting him.
"I trust you." The words come out shaky, but I mean them. "I want this to be you."
His eyes search my face. "Even though this isn't real? Even though we're going to divorce when this is over?"
There's something in his voice that makes me pause, some undercurrent I can't quite identify. But before I can decipher it, he's pulling me down onto the bed beside him. I sink down onto the mattress, my heart pounding against my ribs.
"We'll take this slow," he murmurs, brushing hair back from my face. "If you want to stop at any point—"
"I won't want to stop." I'm surprised by how much I mean it. Despite the nerves, despite the complicated circumstances, I want this. I want him.
Elio studies me for a long moment, and then he leans in and kisses me.
The kiss is soft and slow. His mouth grazes mine, as if he’s learning the contours of it all over again. I start to press my lips more firmly to his, and he catches my chin gently in his fingers, slowing me down again.
“I want to take this slow,” he corrects. “I don’t care why we’re here, Annie. I’ve imagined this for eleven years. Every time I—” He breaks off, and reaches for my hand, drawing it down to his lap.
He’s already hard for me, thick and long and rigid under my palm.
“Every time, I imagined it was your hand. Your mouth. Your—” He sucks in a ragged breath.
“I’ve fucked you a hundred different ways in my mind.
Two hundred. In every place I could imagine.
And I still know that the real thing is going to be better than anything I could have fantasized about. ”
I’m grateful I’m sitting down. His words make me feel dizzy, weak, breathless. He’s saying everything I’ve ever wanted to hear. Making tonight as real as it could possibly be, as if we’re here because we chose each other and not because we’ve been chased into a corner.
Maybe it is real for him. Maybe he means all of it. Maybe this is everything he’s ever wanted, too.
His mouth drags over mine again, slow and reverent.
“I’m going to make you come before you do anything to me,” he promises, moving my hand away from his cock and placing it on the bed.
“I don’t care how badly I need it. I’m going to hear you moan and cry out and come for me.
First with my fingers, and then with my tongue, until you’re so ready for me you’re begging.
And then—” Another kiss, his tongue dragging over my lower lip, his thumb gently pressing into the hollow of my chin. “Then, cuore mio, I’ll make you mine.”
I’m lost, and I think he is too. Everything else has vanished, every reason for being here, the simple cabin bed instead of a plush luxury hotel, the scent of wood and cold and fireplace embers instead of linen spritz and expensive candles and roses.
All I can feel is his lips, his hands guiding me back onto the bed, laying me against the pillows as he slowly works my tank top upwards, baring me an inch at a time.
When he reaches my breasts, he skims his thumbs over the nipples, back and forth until they’re stiff. And then he leans down, capturing one between his lips, and I’m transported back in time.
The blanket beneath me smells like wool.
The sun is hot on my skin. And Elio’s mouth is around my nipple, teasing it until it’s hard, his fingers working beneath my panties as he pushes me toward an orgasm.
He’s in nothing but his boxers, his body lean, his skin smooth, untouched yet by ink.
His dark brown hair falls into his face, tickling my skin.
“You’re perfect,” he breathes, and I’m pulled back into the present. Into Elio leaning over me, still fully dressed, his mouth moving to my other nipple as he slowly builds my arousal, making me ache for him with every pass of his tongue, every light squeeze of his hand around my small breast.
“They never really got any bigger,” I whisper with a shaky laugh as he palms my breast again, and he looks up, his pupils blown dark.
“Perfect, cuore mio,” he murmurs again, his voice thick and halting as if he can’t manage more than those few words. A ripple of desire runs through me, my eyes misting over as if my body can’t contain all the emotion in me right now, all the need, all the feeling.
And there’s so much of it. Elio moves up to my mouth, kissing me slowly, then harder.
His hands slide over my breasts, down my ribs, working my sleep shorts and panties off of my hips until I’m lying bare beneath him while he’s still fully clothed.
He leans back on his knees, gaze traveling down my naked body, and I feel self-conscious for the first time with him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “As beautiful as I remember. So fucking gorgeous.”
I don't know what to say to that. So instead, I reach up and pull him down into another kiss.
This time, when his tongue sweeps into my mouth, I kiss him with everything I have—all my fear and desire and desperate need for this to be real, even though I know it isn't. His weight settles over me, careful and controlled, and I can feel the hard length of him pressing against my hip.
He wants this too. Whatever his reasons, whatever his reservations, he wants me.
His hand slides down my hip, moving between my thighs. He parts my folds, sucking in a breath when he feels how wet I am. “Fuck,” he breathes, two fingers sliding back and forth in my wetness as I feel his cock twitch against my hip. “God, you’re fucking drenched, Annie.”