Page 21 of Satin Empire

My eyebrows raise. “Chairs?”

“He had a guest list. There was going to be an actual goddamn wedding. I lost my shit and made him cancel it all.”

“Seriously? You yelled at the Don?” I feel a strange bubbling in my stomach. Not quite butterfly wings. Maybe more like moths.

“I knew you’d hate it, getting paraded around in front of the Capos and shit. I forced him to do it this way. I mean, if we’re going to drag you into a marriage you don’t want, why make you suffer too? Bastard was going to make everyone sit through a fucking Catholic mass.”

“Wow, he really is a monster.”

Carlo laughs. It wasn’t a good joke, but it helps drain some of the tension. His hand’s still on my back, and now I’m facing him, within the sphere of his arms. He’s in a dark suit, more expensive and sleeker than what he had on the other night, and I realize he probably dressed up for our little signing ceremony. It makes me feel another one of those flutters—he wanted to look good for me.

“We don’t have to stay here,” he says softly, moving closer. I’m very aware of his size and his handsome mouth. I’m aware of those big hands of his, the same hands that had covered my breasts the first night we met. My cheeks flush and there’s a pulse between my legs, drowning out the slight flutter with a dripping beat.

“Where would we go?”

“My place. You’re moving in with me.”

My jaw tightens. “Do I get a say?”

“You know you don’t, baby.” When I try to pull away, he doesn’t let me. “Again, this isn’t my call. We’re married, which means we have to live together, unless you want to convince your stepfather to let you move back in.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right, but I don’t have to be happy about it.”

He stares at me, lips parted, and his tongue rolls along his lower lip. “I know you don’t like me. I’m not particularly fond of you either. But we’re married, which means we’re stuck together for at least as long as the war’s still going on and my brother still needs your stepfather’s soldiers. I want to put everything behind us and try to play nice for a while.”

I feel a strange, disconnected feeling wash over me as I start to understand the implications of what he just said.

“Wait, hold on, what do you mean, for as long as the war’s still going on?”

He pulls me closer, not listening. My heart’s racing and I’m too confused to react properly. I should be kicking him in the crotch and running away, not pressing my palms against his muscular chest in the mirror image of what he did to me barely a week ago. His hands move down to my hips, holding tight.

“I want to seal this and show you that it isn’t so terrible, being my wife. I’ll take care of you. I won’t make your life hell, unless you try to make mine harder. We can do this together, if we want.”

Why did he say for as long as the war’s going on? Does that mean there’s a way out of this in the future? “Carlo,” I say, shaking my head, trying to resist the urge to get up on my toes as the warmth of his body floods into mine. “This is too much. Can you wait a second?”

But his lips are coming toward me. Every mistake I neglected to make in my life seems to converge on this moment as if all my bad behavior has been saved up and now I’m spending it all at once. I know what he wants a second before it happens, and I have that brief window to turn my cheek, to do anything but tilt my chin up to meet him halfway, but there’s a little voice in my skull—the same stupid voice that made me dance and show my boobs off to the horny strip club pervs—and that voice thinks a wedding isn’t a real wedding until the bride and groom kiss.

His mouth is soft. I expected something harder, something aggressive. That’s not Carlo. He’s gentle at first, probing, and the prickle of stubble on his skin sends a shiver into my spine as his mouth opens, and I open mine too. His tongue slips past my lips and it’s like a fresh rainstorm, a downpour of emotion, pleasure and fear, excitement and sorrow, all crashing into me at once.

And the worst part is, the kiss is good. It’s a really, really good kiss. He tastes like lemon and mint and the sweet burn of bourbon. I melt into that kiss, fall against him like I’ve never felt something like this before, because I haven’t. I’ve never been weak-kneed, never had moths in my belly, never had a heart that wanted to leave my body so badly, until right now.

His hands hold my hips tighter, and one reaches up to graze my cheek, down to my neck, back to my hips, and I whimper against his lips as he hungrily takes my mouth. The kiss intensifies, the moment building, stretching, and I want to let him hold me here for however long he wants me. There’s nothing outside of this room; there’s only Carlo.

Then it’s over. He pulls back, staring at me with real lust in his eyes, a burning want that rolls down his body, through his fingertips, into my flesh. I could give myself to him right now, and that stare promises I wouldn’t regret it, at least not while he’s feasting on my skin.

But I step back, bumping against the desk. He keeps on looking at me and I’m afraid of what he might do until he turns away abruptly and throws back his drink.

“Now it’s official,” he says with his back to me.

My hands fly to my chest. Holy shit, that was a kiss. That was the kiss to end all other kisses. It was the sort of kiss people write really, really good books about, and those books inspire a thousand more great kisses, none of which match what I just tasted.

“Right. Uh. I guess so.” Because that’s all I can think to say.

“Do you want to stick around here? Or would you rather head to my place?”

I close my eyes. His place promises peace and quiet, but it also promises more opportunities to be alone with him, and I’m not sure that’s a great idea.

Except I’d rather be tempted by my new husband than subjected to sitting around with Orsino and Mom.

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