2. Marco
Marco
I’ve spent the last few minutes subtly checking out the bridesmaids, but they vanish from my thoughts the instant the bride of the hour appears.
Holy fuck.
I barely recognize the woman on the arm of her imposing father, a man whose family ripped mine in half. Now, he’s offering me his daughter as if she’s a consolation prize.
The ivory wedding dress molds to her curves in a way that has me viscerally aware of my own body. Hips, waist, ass, and those tits…they look like they could burst free from the confines of her bodice at any moment.
She’s a Conti, though, and within the depths of those big brown eyes, I see my mother’s death.
Bianca’s family snuffed out her life with ease, as if she were no more significant than the flame of a candle.
Bianca may not have played a direct role in the murder, but her last name makes her guilty all the same.
Still, I clock emotions shimmering in those chocolate depths.
Fear. Trepidation.
I’ve hunted men before. I’ve witnessed their silent terror when they realize they’re trapped and will soon breathe their last breath. Rooting out people’s weaknesses and discovering how to break them is a specialty of mine.
Some people are harder than others to crack, but I just so happen to possess the cheat code when it comes to Bianca Conti.
A little damning blackmail teaches you a lot about how a person ticks.
I can still envision the look of horror on her face when my flash went off as the high-end escort she hired fucked her oh-so-gently.
Little does she know how often I’ve looked at that photo, watched that video on my phone, and jerked off to her sweet, breathy mewls.
The air between us sizzles with static energy as the priest’s crackly voice carries with surprising gusto. “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”
Bianca’s father steps forward, tugging her along. “I do.”
Aldo waits to ensure I accept her hand before retreating to the front row. The exchange throws Bianca off, and I seize the opening to yank her forward and spoil her precious composure. Delight fills me as she stumbles into my chest and hurries to right herself, recoiling like I’m on fire.
A small, petty win. Hopefully the first of many.
“Please, be seated.” The priest clears his throat as our guests settle.
Father Roberto, an eightysomething pile of wrinkles in the shape of a man, hunches like a gargoyle on the dais next to us. He was ancient when he christened me twenty-eight years ago, which puts him into certified relic territory now.
Refocusing on my beautiful, blushing bride, I crowd her space, inhaling deeply. She smells like vanilla and plum flowers…a poison fruit from a toxic tree.
That knowledge doesn’t prevent my mouth from watering as I bend closer to her ear. “You look good enough to eat, principessa.”
She straightens abruptly, and her eyes glint with barely concealed hatred.
Even the mere idea of bedding her should twist my stomach, but instead, I succumb to my baser instincts and allow my eyes to rove over her, lingering on the way her breasts rise and fall with every breath. My dick stirs, because apparently it couldn’t care less that she’s my enemy.
My lack of control proves how weak I am. Either that, or the bottle of bourbon I consumed earlier is fueling my libido and little Marco doesn’t discriminate friend from foe when he needs some attention.
“Do you, Marco Ulisse Argento, take Bianca Fortunata Conti as your lawful wife? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do you part?”
I blink at the priest. Shit. Are we at the important part already? How the fuck did I miss that? “I, Marco Ar—”
A hiccup interrupts my flow of words, and Bianca cuts wrathful eyes to me.
She reminds me of an angry cat. Will she rake her claws down my back the first time I sink my cock into her hot, tight pussy? Whine for me when my tongue laps her swollen clit as she begs me for more?
What category of porn would that fall under? Technically, we’re cousins, but not by blood. That means sex with my wife will be kinky but not creepy, a place in which I thrive.
I flinch as she stabs her nails into the meat of my palm, curtailing my dirty thoughts.
What was I meant to be saying?
Oh, right. Vows. “Sure. I mean, I do.”
When Father Roberto coughs pointedly, I half-expect a cloud of dust to escape his lips. “Do you, Bianca Fortunata Conti, take this man to be your husband? To promise to be true to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health? To love and honor and obey him all the days of your life?”
I squeeze her hand this time and give a subtle wink, but Bianca look is frigid enough to give me frostbite. She probably noticed the stark difference in our vows. I bet she desperately wants to argue over that added “obey,” and she all but growls the required response. “I do.”
The priest sighs audibly and draws a cross in the air. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Bianca’s jaw clicks as she pivots toward me. Tilting her head back, she puckers her lips. If I left this part to her, the ceremony would end with a chaste peck.
She may not realize it yet, but this marriage is on my terms. Starting now.
I murmur only loud enough for her to hear. “The people want a show, principessa. So let’s give them one.”
Before she can protest, I claim her mouth with demanding pressure.
Her plush, velvety lips are unresponsive at first, akin to that of a corpse. She stiffens when everyone around us erupts into applause. Though the guests cheer, they sound so far away that she and I might as well inhabit another planet.
I pry at the sealed line of her lips with the tip of my tongue, unrelenting, but she doesn’t cower.
Instead, her fingers pierce my shoulders like talons, and she parts her lips with a sharp, combative snap in a declaration of war.
Our tongues clash in an angry tangle as she fights me for dominance, answering my challenge with a viciousness that I fucking relish.
Kissing her is like licking an open flame and gulping down the searing, unforgiving embers.
I feel the exact moment her hatred transforms into liquid heat.
Her thighs press tightly together in a subconscious show of arousal, and my dick throbs in response.
I ache to spread her wide and fuck her raw until she forgets her own name.
We may hate each other, but our bodies didn’t get the memo.
My mind hazes over as I continue reveling in her delicious flavor. Who knows how long I might have feasted from that mouth had Aldo not muttered his repulsion. His voice snaps me back to reality. Not even my alcohol-laced brain can ignore the reminder of exactly who and what Bianca represents.
I rip myself away from her and barely refrain from dragging the back of my hand across my lips to erase any lingering traces.
Bianca blinks up at me for maybe a fraction of a second before resuming her usual frigid, stick-up-the-ass poise.
A polite little smile curves her now-swollen lips as she faces the guests.
What the hell? How can she be so calm and composed, as if the kiss didn’t faze her at all?
Meanwhile, I can’t take a single breath without her scent filling my lungs or swallow without tasting her.
The truth is, a single, short-lived kiss turned me on more than all my hookups over the past few months combined.
Fuck. I’m not drunk enough for this shit.
Father Roberto coughs as delicate notes of classical music float through the space. He appears exhausted already, and the party just kicked off. “Ladies, gentlemen. May I present Mr. and Mrs. Argento.”