Page 3 of Masked Mafia's Runaway Bride

“Are you sure?” he asked, pulling me ever slightly to him, his hands resting on the small of my back.

I felt pretty light. It would seem the liquor I had earlier was kicking in.

“My head wants me to say no,” I confessed. He remained silent. “But my heart wants to know what you taste like,” I added, and his lips curved into a smile.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want to make love to you in the dark,” he spoke in a confidence I would kill for. He knew what he wanted, and right then, I knew he wanted me.

“But I want to see what you look like,” I muttered, my hands reaching for his mask, but his hands caught mine midway. I rolled my eyes, knowing I couldn’t fight the fire burning inside me. It did not help that his words had turned me on more than I wanted to admit and had weakened my knees.

“Not now, Cherry,” I heard him say right before he spun me around, his mouth crashing on mine.

I wanted to take pride in the fact that I fought him off with everything in me, but I did not. I melted against him, his lips exploring mine in a way no one had ever, his hands gently caressing my face as we made our way inside the room. I paid no attention to my environment. It was dark, but he knew his way around. It was almost mechanical for him.

I let him kiss me, and I kissed him back with the same fervor.

“You taste like sin, sin mixed with apples,” I teased, and he tugged at me, caressing my hair and pulling it backward with one sweep of his fingers.

“You taste like cherries, my Cherry,” the thought of being his felt oddly comforting.

His eyes were dark in the room, but the brown in them still made their way to the light penetrating through mine, and his lips were red from kissing me. His hooded gaze remained on my face, and then he reached for my dress.

I heard it tear, slipping away to pool around my feet.

“You are everything I ever wanted. I waited for this moment all of my life,” he drawled, his eyes on my breasts. I wanted to ask what he meant, but his mouth touched the tips of my nipples, and I gasped out in pleasure. His wet tongue teased them a little bit more, seeming to enjoy the sound of me moaning to the raw pleasure he provided.

My throat clamped closed, and my chest heaved with effort.

“Who… who–you…?” I tried to ask, but my words failed me

I was unable to complete my statement before he flipped me over one shoulder, carrying me to what I made out in the darkness to be a bed.

He dropped me on my back, spreading my legs wider for his preview.

“I am going to take every bit of you now, Cherry,” he stated in that low tone, searing me with a glance before his head lowered, and a loud gasp escaped my throat.

I slapped a hand to my mouth to stop myself from screaming as the sensations of his tongue ricocheted up my spine and down my legs and settled into my toes, which curled in pleasure.

He rose to his feet after some minutes, reached for his pants, which he discarded to the far end of the room, and then he flipped me over on my knees, one hand coming to circle my throat.

“Your safe word is Cherry,” he whispered, but I couldn’t utter a single coherent word till we were done. After we climaxed, that was when I saw a dragon tattoo slightly below his elbow. I was intrigued because, below the tattoo, there was a calligraphed name, Jacqueline. Who was she to him? Did I just have sex with someone who had someone else in his life, someone so important he tattooed her name on him?

Now, I was standing at the altar, drowning in misery, caught between vows I never wanted to make and a life I didn’t choose. My head still pounded from last night’s mind-blowing sex, and I could almost smell the stranger’s cologne lingering inmy memory. I’d left him at dawn, slipping back into the life I thought I could control.

“Mirella Gallo, do you take Don Carlos as your lawfully wedded husband?”

I blinked, jolted back to reality by the priest’s voice. He was looking at me expectantly, waiting for my answer. My gaze shifted to Don Carlos, standing there with his stiff posture and his gray hair combed back. He looked at me with such confidence, so sure that this was the answer to everyone’s problems—his, mine, my father’s. The last time I’d felt this trapped was probably in school detention.

Duty, I reminded myself, for my father, who was gripping his hat tightly in the front row as though it were the only thing holding him together. He was relying on me, counting on me. And Don Carlos? Well, he was here to save us from financial ruin, wasn’t he?

I took a deep breath, glanced one last time at my father’s pleading eyes, and finally nodded.

“Yes, I do.”

It came out weaker than I’d intended, barely a whisper, but I’d said it. There was a collective sigh from the guests, a relieved murmur in the pews. My father visibly relaxed, and I could almost feel the weight lifting from his shoulders.

The priest turned to Don Carlos, and I felt a strange sense of finality, of something that couldn’t be undone. I was now bound to a man who, only yesterday, I could barely look in the eye without a shiver of dread.

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