4. Luca
Luca
Giada turns to face away from me. The zipper runs from the base of her neck to the bottom of her spine.
“Hold still.”
My knuckles brush her skin as I catch the small tab. She stiffens melodramatically, so I slow my hand and pull the zipper down without touching her again.
“There.” I release the zipper.
I step away. The dress falls. White silk and lace slide over her hips and collapse around her feet until she’s standing in front of me wearing nothing but a white lace bra, matching panties, stockings, and the shoes she wore down the aisle.
Fuck.
The lingerie clings to the soft curves the dress hid—full breasts, a narrow waist, rounded hips, and smooth, pale thighs above the stockings.
My cock goes hard so fast it hurts.
She turns to face me. Her arms remain straight at her sides. Her fingers curl against her palms, and she fixes her eyes on the second button of my shirt.
She is beautiful, nearly naked, and my wife. Each fact makes leaving this room harder.
I’ve had women strip for me before. Sophisticated women skilled in the art of seduction. They made their intentions plain. When a beautiful, willing woman offers herself to me, I’m not fool enough to say no. But…
This seems different. Something is off.
For one, this beautiful woman is my wife.
I want this marriage to last. Divorces aren’t unheard of in the organization, but they’re rare. Frowned upon.
For two…
Giada stands rigid enough to crack. Her fingers dig into her palms. Like she isn’t offering, she’s bracing.
My cock aches. I want her under me. But…
“Giada, what are you doing?” I ask. “I mean, what is this?”
Her brow pulls together. “Preparing to consummate the marriage. That is the next step in the order of events.”
Her cold, careful answer kills none of my desire.
“I’m a virgin,” she says. “You’ll have to take charge. I haven’t done this before.”
Oh, goddammit-to-hell.
“Giada, do you want me to fuck you?” Her mouth tightens at the word fuck.
She lifts her eyes to mine. “We’re married. A husband and wife have sex after their wedding. It’s called consummation.”
“I’m familiar with the term. You didn’t answer my question.”
“I…I…umm…” A crease forms between her brows as she considers the question. Her shoulders pull inward. “Papa said my husband can do anything he wants to me.”
My molars press together. Antonio Rafinelli may have escaped the church, but he won’t stay hidden forever.
“Giuseppe made it clear that wives are required to provide sex.”
“Giuseppe Lombardi is not your husband.”
She doesn’t move toward me. She doesn’t cover herself either. She waits.
And it’s clear. This isn’t a seduction attempt. It’s a surrender. She’s attempting to fulfill what she considers a marital duty—to endure me fucking her.
“Well, we’re not having sex tonight,” I bite out. “We’re not having sex until you’re begging me to fuck you.”
Her eyes latch onto the crotch of my pants.
“But your penis is hard.” Her chin angles toward the bulge in my trousers. “I believe that’s your penis.” She takes a half-step forward. “Is that your penis?”
I run a hand down my face as she points at the evidence. I swear to Christ this woman might be the end of me.
“It’s my penis,” I answer through gritted teeth.
“So you do want sex.”
I force my gaze down to the dress pooled around her feet. “Of course I want sex. But not now and not like this. You get to say no. You get to wait until you’re comfortable. Being my wife doesn’t change that.”
I bend, pick up the dress, and hold it out to her. “Look, this is your bedroom. Not ours. Yours.”
She accepts the gown but makes no attempt to put it on. She presses it against herself. “Am I allowed to lock the door?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you want to enter?”
“Especially then.” I hold her stare.
Her lips part. She looks down at the gown.
“Look at me, Giada.”
She fixes on my tie. She won’t look higher.
I point toward the bathroom. “Take a shower if you want one. There are clean towels inside. I’ll have someone bring you dinner, unless you’d rather eat downstairs.”
“What happens after dinner?”
“Whatever you choose. Sleep. Read. Unpack.”
She looks at the tiny suitcase near the dresser, and I move toward the door. “Lock it behind me if that makes you feel safer.”
I take one last long look at my new wife—the lace, the bare skin, the beautiful and perplexed face—and leave before my straining erection pushes a hole through my trousers.
The door closes between us. I cross the hall, enter my bedroom, and turn the lock.
I want to fuck my wife.
I want to peel away the lace, spread her across my bed, and teach her what pleasure can be. I want to learn every place on her lush, curvy body that makes her tremble. I want her to ask for more and leave me with no doubt she means it.
None of that is happening while she digs her fingernails into her palms and endures me. Not even if my cock is so hard it’s painful.
My hand closes around my belt.
For the near future, I’ll handle the problem myself.