Chapter 6
ROSALINA
I don’t think we even make it fully into the car before he’s on me.
The door has barely closed when his body turns toward mine, the confined space forcing us together.
His hands move fast and unhesitating, sliding over my waist, my back, my thigh, like he has been holding himself in check until the last possible second.
The world outside disappears the moment the tinted glass seals shut, the city reduced to blurred light and shadow, and suddenly there is nowhere to retreat to—even if I wanted to.
His mouth is on mine before the partition has time to rise.
The kiss knocks the breath straight out of me on impact, hard and claiming, stripped of anything gentle.
It feels pent up, restrained for hours, maybe longer, and now unleashed all at once.
My pulse stutters under the force of it.
I taste champagne and heat and something unmistakably intentional.
One hand clamps at my waist, dragging me closer until our bodies align without question, while the other slides up to my jaw, fingers firm against my skin, holding my face exactly where he wants it.
The layers of my dress bunch awkwardly between us, satin and lace and excess, but it doesn’t slow him. It only reminds me how little space there is left between wanting and having.
When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s only to rest his forehead against mine, his breath warm and uneven against my lips.
“Finally,” he murmurs, low and rough, like the word has been sitting on his tongue all night.. “Mine. All mine.”
“Your wife. I am just your wife,” I gasp, the word strange and inevitable at once, settling somewhere deep in my chest where it feels both terrifying and right.
“Not just my wife.” His gaze holds mine, dark and intent, stripping me bare without touching. “You are my wife,” he repeats, slower this time, like he wants it to sink in. “My gorgeous, needy little wife.” His mouth brushes my ear as he speaks, his voice roughening. “Say it.”
The way he says it makes my breath stutter. His arm tightens around me, drawing me closer until there is no space left to pretend I am not exactly where I want to be. The seat presses against my back, his body anchoring me in place, and my thoughts scatter under the weight of his attention.
“I’m yours, Dante,” I whisper, the admission leaving me lightheaded.
“Good girl,” he growls, and the praise coils low in my belly, hot and tight.
He kisses me again, softer now, nipping at my lower lip.
His hands are everywhere, skimming over the structured bodice of my dress, the boning of my corset.
“This fucking dress,” he murmurs against my throat, his teeth grazing my pulse point.
“A beautiful prison. Let me get you out.”
He finds the first hidden zipper at my side.
The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet car.
The structured bodice loosens, just an inch, and I suck in a real breath for the first time in hours.
He works the second zipper, his fingers sure and urgent.
The top of my dress falls open, exposing the plain white silk of my corset.
My heart hammers against the constricting fabric.
Dante’s gaze drops. He traces the swell of my breast above the silk, his thumb brushing over a peaked nipple. I jolt at the contact, a sharp, sweet bolt of sensation.
“So responsive,” he whispers, his voice thick with awe. “So perfect for me. My perfect, untouched wife.”
His words are a litany, stoking the fire inside me. He leans down, his mouth hot through the silk, sucking my nipple into a tight, aching point. I cry out, my hands flying to his hair. The sensation is unbearable, a direct line of pleasure to the throbbing heat between my legs.
“Dante…”
“I know what you need,” he says, sitting back. He pushes the voluminous skirts of my dress up, a rustling avalanche of fabric, until my legs are bare to the tops of my white stockings. The cool air of the car hits my inner thighs. I feel exposed, vulnerable, aching.
His hand slides up my thigh, firm and possessive. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “All for me. My Rosalina.”
His fingertips find the edge of my white lace panties. He strokes the damp fabric, and I whimper, pushing against his hand. “Please.”
“Please what, darling?”
“Touch me.”
“Since you asked so nicely.”
He hooks a finger in the lace and pulls them aside. I’m completely bare to him now. He doesn’t look away from my face as his fingers find my slick, heated flesh. One long finger slides through my folds, gathering wetness. I buck against his hand, a strangled sound escaping my throat.
“So wet already,” he praises, his voice a dark caress. “So ready for your husband. Let me feel you.”
He slides one finger inside me, slowly, stretching a tight, virgin barrier. There’s a brief, sharp pinch, a fullness I’ve never known. He stills, letting me adjust, his eyes searching mine. “Okay?”
I nod, breathless. The pain is already fading, replaced by a deep, insistent need. “More.”
He crooks his finger, and oh god. A spark ignites deep inside, a shock of pure, undiluted pleasure. “There?” he asks, and I can only moan. He finds that spot again, rubbing it in a slow, devastating circle, while his thumb presses against the swollen bud of my clit.
The sensations are too much. They coil, tighten, a spring wound to its breaking point. My back arches off the leather seat. “Dante, I’m— I can’t—”
“You can,” he commands softly. “Come for me. Let me feel my wife come on my fingers.”
His words are the final key. The world shatters into bright, blinding pieces. My body seizes, clenching around his finger as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me. I cry out, a raw, unfiltered sound, my vision whiting out at the edges.
He holds me through it, his finger still inside me, his other arm wrapped around my shoulders. As the tremors subside, he brings his glistening fingers to his lips, his eyes locked on mine. He sucks them clean, a slow, deliberate pull. “Divine,” he says, his voice ragged. “But I need more.”
Before I can process it, he’s sliding down the seat, burying his face between my thighs. His tongue is a flat, hot stroke over my sensitive flesh. I scream, my hands fisting in his perfectly styled hair. He licks into me, deep and thorough, then zeroes in on my clit, sucking it into his mouth.
“No, it’s too much, I can’t—” I babble, oversensitive and shaking.
“You can,” he says, the vibration against me making my hips jerk. “You’ll come again. For me. My greedy girl.”
His tongue is relentless, a masterful, wicked instrument.
He laps and sucks, one hand holding my hip down, the other sliding two fingers back inside me, stretching me further.
The dual assault is unbearable. The pressure builds again, faster this time, deeper. It’s a tidal wave, rising from my core.
“Dante! Oh, right there, please. Please.” The warning is a sob.
He doesn’t let up. He drinks me in as I fall apart a second time, my body convulsing under his mouth, my cries echoing in the car’s plush interior.
I’m boneless, floating, when he moves back up, settling me onto his lap. My back is to his chest, my skirts a cloud around us. I can feel the hard, thick length of him straining against his slacks, pressed against the base of my spine. Need, sharp and fresh, pierces the haze.
I writhe against him, a slow, desperate grind. “Please,” I whisper, turning my head to nuzzle his jaw. “I need you. I need to feel you inside me.”
His arms tighten around me. His breath hitches. “No.”
The denial is a physical blow. “What? Why?”
“Because I said so,” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. He slips his hand between my legs from behind, his fingers sliding easily through my slickness. “You’re not ready for that yet. You need another one first.”
“I can’t,” I plead, even as my body betrays me, arching into his touch.
“You will.” He pushes two fingers back inside me, his palm pressing against my clit as he moves them. “Ride them. Show me how much you want it.”
He sets a slow, deep rhythm. I move on his hand, impaling myself on his fingers, the wool of his trousers rough against my inner thighs.
He lowers his head, his mouth finding my bared breast, pulling my nipple into the wet heat of his mouth.
He suckles hard, his tongue flicking, while his other hand comes around to rub tight, urgent circles on my clit.
The overstimulation is madness. Pleasure, sharp and almost painful, radiates from every point of contact—his mouth on my breast, his fingers inside me, his thumb on my clit. I’m sobbing, begging, my words incoherent.
“That’s it,” he groans against my skin. “Take what I give you. Come for me again. Be my good girl.”
The third climax hits me like a seizure, violent and all-consuming. My entire body locks, my scream is soundless. I pulse around his fingers, a relentless, fluttering rhythm that seems to go on forever.
As I slump against him, utterly spent, he holds me close. I can feel him, still rock-hard and massive, beneath me. Driven by a primal instinct, I reach a trembling hand behind me, fumbling for his belt. I find the hard ridge of him through the fine wool and stroke, rubbing my palm against him.
He lets out a choked groan, his hips jerking up into my touch. “Rosalina…”
A low knock rings through the partition of the car. The driver’s polite, neutral voice cuts through the heavy air. “Mr. and Mrs. Salvatore, we’ve arrived home.”
The car door opens and cool night air washes over my heated skin.
In one smooth motion, Dante scoops me into his arms, my ruined skirts cascading over his forearm.
He carries me as if I weigh nothing, his steps sure and quick up the stone path, through the grand foyer, and up the sweeping staircase.
I bury my face in his neck, breathing in his scent—spice, clean sweat, and me.