Page 76 of Desire and Revenge

He hadn’t let me finish my tirade. Instead, he silenced me with a hard, passionate kiss and proceeded to give me not less than ten orgasms that night. Let’s just say my memory was a little hazy for a week afterward.

The next day, we got married. Last I heard, the journalist was still alive.

“What time is it?” I ask my husband as he approaches me, his gaze full of naked, liquid heat.

“Time to feed you,” he replies. “You passed right out after?—”

“Four orgasms,” I cut in with a huff. “Are you trying to kill me? My headstone will read Beloved Wife, died of pleasure.”

When I look over at him, brows pull together in a deep frown. “Stop talking about dying and eat your fruits.”

He thrusts the bowl of peeled and sliced fruits at me before crawling into the bed to settle at my back. He adjusts me to his preference till I’m leaning up against him.

“You cut far too much,” I protest, eyeing the mountain of fruit.

He eyes the bowl with disbelief. “You’re going to finish every single thing in that bowl, Sofia. I mean it.” Then, almost casually, he adds. “By the way, your parents called.”

My mouth twitches and I toss an apple slice into my mouth. “What did they say?”

“I didn’t pick the phone,” he shrugs, one hand rising up to cover my bare breast as he begins to roll a nipple between his fingers.

A moan escapes me, long and loud, but I manage to shake my head, fighting through the haze of lust. “You promised you’d make an effort with them.”

The promise had been made under extreme duress, back when my parents had been less than supportive about my new relationship with Nero. They’re old-fashioned, set in their ways, but I know they care about me in their own way.

“We agreed that no one should attempt to reach us if it wasn’t an emergency, and in case of emergencies, reach Davide to contact us,” he points out. “What part of those instructions says that they can just call us randomly?”

I open my mouth to answer, but he pinches at my nipple, and a flood of moisture gushes out of me. I gasp at the immense pleasure, then look over my shoulder to glare at the man I’m so hopelessly in love with.

“I know what you’re doing, Nero,” I accuse.

“If you want me to stop, just say the word,” he bends to whisper in my ear and my body shudders, breath catching in my throat. When his tongue peeks out of his mouth and swirls around the shell of my ear, I’m a goner.

As if I can ever want my husband to stop touching me.

“Eat your fruits, baby,” he murmurs. “You don’t eat enough.”

“How am I supposed to when you’re doing that?” I whine, half-laughing, half-desperate.

Just like that, he pulls away from me, causing a frustrated groan to slip out of my mouth.

“I hate you,” I grumble, stuffing my mouth with mango slices.

Nero is big on me making my own choices and decisions, but when it comes to feeding me, he doesn’t compromise. He watches me like a hawk until I clear my plate. It’s a habit of his now. I can’t deny it’s working—my appetite’s back to what itused to be. His care, attention, and relentless drive to ensure I’m taken care of are the biggest reasons why.

That, and the fact that he always makes sure I’m so exhausted after sex that I instantly need sustenance.

Since we arrived in Marina di Puolo for our honeymoon three days ago, he’s gotten a new habit of cutting up fruits for me. The island is idyllic, calm, and relaxing, and the beach house we are occupying is made up of a single bedroom, a single bath, a living room complete with a pool table, and a cozy kitchen.

We both laugh the minute Cat strolls lazily into the room. The moment he spots us on the bed, he does a quick 360 and saunters back out.

It’s almost as if, the moment he senses we’re about to get down—something that happens all too quickly once we’re in the same room together—he makes himself scarce.

I can't blame him; I’m sure his innocent cat eyes have seen more of our lovemaking than he ever wanted to. We still haven’t settled on a name for him. Since Nero rejected Alfred, we just call him Cat.

“Did you speak to Carmine about negotiating with Parrello?” I ask after a while. “I don’t like that slimy son of a gun. He acts too slick, and you know that men who act like him always have something to hide. A few somethings wouldn’t even surprise me.”

I let out a squeal as Nero suddenly hurls me up into his arms and drops me back until I’m facing him and sitting astride him, knees planted outside of his thighs.

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