Chapter 4
GINA
Istand listening to the quiet hum of the city outside the glass while I look at myself in the mirror.
My reflection stares back at me.
Who is this stranger in a seven-tiered Southern Belle style wedding dress? The bodice hugs my normally moderate breasts so tightly I can barely breathe, pushing them up and together like an offering.
I turn slightly from side to side. Each flounce is accented with a fabric rose, which holds the whole thing together.
This dress is 100-percent a fantasy of my mother’s, who loves Scarlett’s dresses in Gone with the Wind.
I run my hands down the tight bodice to my hips, wondering if Dante has the patience to undo the two dozen pearl buttons in the back.
The dress feels heavier now that I’m alone. “Don’t change,” he said.
No. Ordered.
I assume that means I’m allowed to use the bathroom. I move across to the marble floor, my fingers trailing along the cool countertop as I take in the sunken tub. It’s deep enough to submerge completely.
And the separate oversized shower with glass walls would hide nothing from view. Would Dante watch me as I shower? Or would he shower with me, his body pressed against mine under the hot spray.
My body tingles at the thought.
When I turn to the soft, fluffy folded towels, I imagine Dante’s hands on me, drying every inch of my damp skin after we’d shared that shower.
When I step back into the bedroom, I gasp to find Dante standing near the bed.
My stomach flips.
He’ s taken off his jacket, and his white shirt pulls tight across his chest. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle and veins that make my mouth go dry.
The guns I noticed earlier are missing. I don’t know where they went, and I decide not to ask.
Yet that sense of danger remains.
It’s in the way his eyes darken when they travel down my body, lingering on my breasts, my waist, my hips.
I feel naked already.
He looks at me for so long that I have to fight the urge to squirm.
“Stand over there,” he finally says, indicating a small circular riser near the window.
The platform is only a few inches high, but it feels like a stage.
I hesitate, my heartbeat like a drum under my tight bodice.
When I’m in position, I feel his eyes burning into my back, tracing every curve the dress accentuates.
“Be still,” he commands, his voice dropping to a low register that makes heat pool between my flaming thighs.
“Don’t turn to me.” He speaks like he’s savoring what’s about to happen, making my nipples harden in anticipation.
As he moves behind me, I feel something cool brush against my bare shoulder.
I shiver as I hear a soft snip. And another.
My breath catches in my throat as I realize what’s happening.
I stand perfectly still, afraid to move, afraid to breathe too deeply. The anticipation is excruciating.
Each second stretching out as I wait for the next touch, the next snip.
I can feel the heat of his body behind me, so close but not touching.
It makes my skin tingle with awareness.
When his fingers graze the nape of my neck, I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
The air between us feels charged, electric.
I’m aware of every inch of my skin beneath this dress that’s about to fall away.
I glance toward the mirror just as the first decorative rose holding the flounces, and therefore my dress, gives way.
My eyes widen at the reflection in the mirror.
The silver scissors in his hand catch the light as he slices through another fastening, cutting my dress away.
Not tearing it in a frenzy. Not fumbling with the ties. But deliberately severing each connection that holds the fabric to my body.
With each precise snip, I feel more exposed, more vulnerable.
More his.
Layers fall away until I’m left in nothing but garters and delicate silk undies.
My face warms as he turns me to face him, and for nearly the first time since the reception, he touches me.
He leans in and kisses me, slow and controlled. As if he’s claiming me.
His hand slides lower, squeezing. Testing my flesh.
Now my face flushes with embarrassment, heat blooming from my chest to my cheeks.
Yet as I take another look at myself in the mirror, I have to admit I look pretty good.
Like one of those lingerie models in a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Curves soft and inviting, skin glowing under the dim chandelier light.
The sight stirs something unfamiliar in me, a flicker of confidence.
I’ve never been touched like this, never even kissed a man, but here I am, exposed before a mafia king who takes what he wants.
A virgin bride, bartered in a deal of blood and vows.
Dante steps back and spins me around before again pulling me into his iron embrace.
His lips brush mine lightly at first, then with a possessive hunger.
Then his large hand encircles my ass, giving it a firm squeeze that borders on pain.
This penchant for control sends a thrill through me.
Dante presses his body against mine. I feel the hard, throbbing length of him grinding into my panty-covered pussy. It awakens a slick heat in my core.
My body arches against him instinctively, my hips tilting upward to seek more of that intoxicating friction.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear, voice rough with command.
I feel him harden further as he presses against me, if that’s even possible.
He’s like a steel rod, enormous in length and girth, his presence overwhelming.
How will he ever fit inside me? The question sends a shiver of fear-laced excitement through my core.
Dante’s hands shift from my ass to my breasts, cupping them with a grasp that borders on rough.
Rough, yet I’m enjoying his tease between pleasure and the slight suggestion of pain.
I turn slightly, catching our reflection in the mirrored wall: his broad shoulders eclipsing mine, fingers teasing my nipples to stiff peaks.
And my body flushed and yielding under his touch.
The image arouses me further, heat flooding my veins. For a moment, I feel like I’m starring in my own illicit movie, every gasp and tremble captured in glass.
Dante’s moves awaken something wild in me, something I never knew lurked within.
He leads me to the foot of the bed and positions me to stand with my back facing the plush mattress, his hands steady on my hips.
With deliberate slowness, he kneels and hooks his fingers into my silky G-string panties, sliding them down my thighs.
Their lacy edges tickle my skin as they flutter to the floor. The cool air hits my exposed sex, making me gasp.
He looks up at me, his dark eyes locking with mine. Then he spreads my legs, his breath hot against my inner thighs.
His mouth descends on my pussy, licking me into a frenzy that threatens to explode through me.
Oh my God.
His skillful tongue circles my clit, which is used to my own tentative explorations.
I’d thought myself adequately versed, but my new husband induces electric sensations I never imagined.
I buck my hips forward, trying to guide his tongue to that perfect spot, my body begging without words.
“Yes,” I whisper, the word escaping in a reverent moan. What am I saying? More threatens to spill out. Maybe even explicit directions.
How would that go down with a don like him, a man who demands obedience?
Just when I’m on the edge, my thighs trembling, pleasure coiling tight, he stops.
And pulls back with a smirk, leaving me aching and desperate for more.