CHAPTER 41
MARCELLO
I didn’t realize when I reached my room. Exhaustion hit like a brick wall—no dreams, no thoughts, just blackout. The next thing I knew, I was waking up to a knock.
Kyra stood at the door in a red-and-black dress, eyes wide.
“Why aren’t you ready, Uncle M? Aren’t you coming?”
“Yes, I am, piccola,” I said, rubbing my eyes.
“Where’s your mum?”
“She’s getting dressed,” she said, spinning once like a little tornado.
Roxanne’s mother appeared behind her, arms crossed.
“Were you sleeping? Did you sleep the whole day?”
I rubbed my face. “I hadn’t realised.”
She stepped closer, “Get ready quickly. And wear black. That’s the theme.”
I nodded and headed for the shower. By the time I came out, Roxanne was gone. I dressed fast—black shirt, black pants, and a blazer. Kyra tugged my hand, and we walked to the banquet hall with her grandmother trailing behind. Roxanne was still nowhere to be seen.
Sahil’s friend stood at the mic, asking everyone to take their seats.
He told the story of how Sahil met Priya—client turned lover, persistence turned partnership.
Apparently, Sahil had fumbled through their first meeting, spilled coffee on her file, and called her by the wrong name.
Twice. They met again at a party, and he tried to redeem himself with charm and tequila.
Priya wasn’t impressed. But Sahil kept showing up—at her office, at her gym, even at her favourite coffee shop. Eventually, she gave in. Tonight, we’d see that story unfold through dance. Their awkward beginning, their slow burn, their final leap into love.
The lights dimmed and the music kicked in.
Sahil grinned. “This one’s for you, baby.”
The first dance was a surprise—Sahil and the groomsmen. And Roxanne.
She stepped onto the stage in sequin pants, a black blazer, and an electric blue corset blouse. Her hair was tied in a high ponytail, black sunglasses and white sneakers completing the look. She looked like fire—contained but lethal.
The first track hit hard—gritty, seductive, with a bassline that prowled like a dare. It was a cover by an Italian rock band, all rasp and swagger. I smirked. This had Roxanne written all over it. They moved in sync—slide, swing, drop. Roxanne was in her element.
I’d seen her dance provocatively. But this? This was electric—sharp, deliberate, impossible to look away from. There was a moment she twirled her hips and shook her ass—
Damn. It felt aimed at me. And it hit. All I could see was her.
Then the music shifted—bright, playful, instantly familiar. A Bollywood track. The crowd erupted. I recognised the beat—one of those songs Sophie and Matteo couldn’t stop dancing to. Roxanne came to the edge of the stage, lowered her sunglasses, and winked. It felt like she winked at me.
Had she forgiven me? Or was this just a performance—a dance choreographed to keep me guessing? I had no idea what was going on in that pretty little head of hers.
One moment, she was upset—walking away, cold and unreadable. The next, she was setting me on fire with a glance.
Then came a Punjabi track—fast, joyful, impossible not to move to. Kyra ran up and joined them, twirling beside her mother. The crowd roared. She returned a minute later, breathless and glowing. Next was the couple’s dance.
Roxanne’s blazer was gone, replaced by a sheer black fabric draped over her shoulders like a saree and heels replaced her sneakers. She moved with grace, hips fluid, eyes locked on the rhythm.
Arjun’s hands wandered, lingering on her waist too long.
I wanted to snap his fingers one by one—make him remember what wasn’t his. Then they switched partners and Vihaan stepped in.
Their chemistry was fluid. Kyra cheered. My heart sank.
Roxanne’s mother leaned in. “Don’t read too much into this. It’s just a dance.”
The bride squad’s dance was next. Vihaan sat beside us after their set. I saw Roxanne slip out. Before I knew it, I was headed out too.
She came out of the restroom, adjusting her hair. Her fingers were still tangled in her curls, lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
I pulled her into a dark corner of the hallway, cornering her there. I gently pushed her against the wall—one hand on her waist, the other braced beside her. I leaned in, close enough to taste her breath. I could feel her pulse through the air between us.
My restraint was hanging by a thread. Heat rose between us. Surprisingly, she didn’t push away. Like she’d anticipated this. Like she wanted it.
“I didn’t know you could dance like that.”
She smirked. “I thought you saw me dance in Florence.”
“That was provocative. This was almost professional.”
“What can I say?”
She leaned in, brushed her nose against my ear. “I aim to please, Mr. Vitale.”
Her breath on my ear sent an electric jolt to my cock. I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to pin her right there.
Her voice was velvet. Her presence, gasoline. And I was the match she kept striking.
Control Marcello. Apologise first.
I looked into her eyes. “Roxanne… about yesterday…”
She placed a finger on my lips.
“That bitch has been taken care of.”
I stared at her. This side of her—sharp, unapologetic—was new. And I liked it. No, I fucking loved it. I knew she was a fighter. But hearing her fight for me?
Damn. She was getting hotter by the minute.
She grabbed the edge of my blazer, pulled me closer. Our lips almost brushed.
“I know it wasn’t your fault,” she said.
Then bit my lip. Hard. I tasted blood. The sting grounded me. Her mouth was wild—not kissing, claiming, consuming. I wanted to bleed for her. I wanted to beg. I groaned, helpless.
“I want to hate you so bad, but I can’t,” she said, voice laced with seduction.
“You stir something in me,” I said, voice rough.
“Something animalistic. Something that doesn’t ask. Just takes. I don’t understand it.”
I wasn’t just aroused. I was possessed. By the way she looked at me. By the way she didn’t flinch. By the way she made me feel like I was hers to take.
My hand slid down her waist, fingers grazing the waistband. She gasped, lips parted. I didn’t ask. I just moved.
“You want this,” I said. “Why deny it?”
“I’m not like the women you’re used to. Sleek with legs up to their neck. I’m soft, curvy. I’ve been married. I have a child. I come with history. With scars. With weight”
None of that scared me. Losing her did.
“If I had a child,” I said, “would it make a difference? Would you have not chosen me?”
She hesitated. “It’s different for men.”
“No,” I replied. “It’s not.”
“You can have any woman. Why me?”
She looked at me with softened eyes. I took her hand and guided it between us. Her breath stuttered instantly. She slowly moved her hand over my slacks, feeling the full length of my arousal.
“Because this is what you do to me,” I said, quietly, forehead resting against hers.
Her fingers stilled, then moved solely, teasing.
“I don’t have to touch you,” I continued. “I just have to be near you.”
I throbbed under her touch, aching for more.
She swallowed hard, exploring my length with patience.
I slowly moved my hands in her pants, letting my hand slide lower.
Wetness bloomed between her thighs. Her body answered me immediately—soft, responsive, already giving itself away.
I felt the tremor beneath my touch and smiled against her ear.
“I’ve had a taste of you,” I murmured. “And I can’t forget it.”
My stubble brushed her neck. She ground herself on my palm.
“I only want you.”
Her fingers tightened in my jacket, her breath uneven against my throat. I stopped, close enough that she could feel the question before I asked it.
“May I?”
She didn’t answer—just nodded slowly. That was all the permission I needed. I pushed the fabric aside and slid my finger into her. I moved with care, and her body answered me. She arched, trembling against me. Her head tilted back, and she let out a soft moan.
She was unravelling. And I was the thread—tightening, tugging, ready to snap her open. I wanted to pull until she came apart.
Her wetness and warmth instantly sucked my finger in, tightening around me.
“I’ve missed you so much,” I whispered against her lips.
“I’ve missed how you feel. How you taste.”
Her body moved with mine, grinding, gasping, clutching.
“Let me apologise by worshipping every inch of your body.”
She pulled me closer and kissed me—letting my tongue slide over hers.
She pulled away from me—breath heavy. “What if someone sees?”
“Do you want me to stop, cara mia?”
Her voice was a whisper, but hoarse. “No. Fuck no. Undo me.”
I kissed her deep, slow, claiming. I increased my pace, rubbing her clit with my thumb.
She moaned into my mouth—a sound that tasted like surrender.
I slid another finger deep into her as I felt her orgasm build, her muscles clenching around my fingers.
My teeth grazing her jaw and neck, her fingers tangled in my hair, the other rubbing the length of my arousal.
Her body convulsed around my fingers, hips grinding, lips trembling. She was mine. And I was hers.
My craving for her kicked into overdrive in response. I wanted to claim every part of her and draw out her desires to make up for the time we’d lost. More than anything, I wanted to be close to her, have her body pressed up against mine, preferably naked, with only sweat and breath in between.
I pulled my hand out and kissed her one more time. Like I was sealing a promise with my mouth. Then I whispered. My voice came out hoarse, like it had been caged for months.
“I need to be inside you.”
Not just lust or hunger. It was need. To feel her. To belong. To come undone where she held me together.
“Not just to fuck you. To feel you. To come home.”
Her breath caught. Her eyes darkened. And she bit her lip. Like she’d been waiting for those words. Like her body had already said yes, and now her soul was catching up.
I grabbed her hand and started walking back to my room. Her fingers were still damp with want. Mine, still slick with her release. I didn’t care if anyone saw the tent in my slacks. I had an aching arousal, and I just wanted to be deep in her.
I just wanted her. All of her. To bury myself in the woman who undid me. To lose myself in the only place I felt whole. That was my way of showing her that she was the only one I had eyes for.
The only one I wanted.
And that was my way of asking for her forgiveness—
Not with words. But with every inch of me.
She sent a quick text to Vihaan.
His reply came instantly.
She struggled to keep pace beside me, heels clicking against the stone.
“Slow down,” she laughed breathlessly. “I can barely walk in these.”
I stopped abruptly, turned—and before she could protest, lifted her clean off the ground.
“Marcello,” she hissed, half laughing, half scandalised. “Put me down. Someone will see.”
“I don’t care,” I said calmly, adjusting her weight against me like she belonged there. “The sooner I get you to the room, the sooner I can get you naked. And stop pretending I can keep my hands to myself.”
“You’ll throw your back out,” she teased, one arm braced around my neck.
I bit into her hip, just hard enough to make her gasp.
“Amore,” I said, voice low and unshaken, “you don’t weigh me down. You anchor me. I’m a big, strong man. I could carry two of you on each shoulder.”
She laughed. “Show-off.”
My grip tightened. “Only for you.”
I smacked her ass once.
“Now hold on,” I added. “Or I’ll make you forget where we are.”
I rushed back to the room, quickly opened the door and put her down in the foyer. She stood there—breathless, flushed, radiant. The light hit her just right. Her skin glowed.
Her eyes held something wild. And I just stared.
She was mine in every way a man can want a woman. To touch. To taste. To keep. And tonight, I wouldn’t hold back.