Page 27 of Silent Vows

I scoop her into my arms, savoring her small gasp of surprise. She weighs nothing, this slip of a girl who’s brought the mighty Matteo DeLuca to his knees. I carry her upstairs to the master bedroom, where the lights rise softly as we enter. The massive bed is dressed in crisp white linens—all new, nothing recycled from the past. This room, like everything else, has been prepared just for her.

Setting her down beside the bed, I take a moment to drink in the sight of her. My wife. Mine. Her dark hair is mussed from my hands, tumbling around her shoulders in waves that beg me to bury my fingers in them again. Her lips are swollen from mykisses, her cheeks flushed with desire. That oversized sweater has slipped completely off one shoulder now, revealing the elegant line of her collarbone and the edge of black lace beneath.

“Beautiful,” I murmur, reaching for the hem of her sweater. I need to see all of her, need to map every inch of skin with my hands, my mouth.

She raises her arms, letting me pull the sweater over her head, but her hands immediately move to cover herself. The gesture is endearing, speaking to an innocence that makes me want to both protect and corrupt her. The black lace of her bra does little to hide her curves, but it’s not shame making her shy—it’s the intensity of my gaze.

“Don’t,” I say softly, drawing her hands away. “Let me look at my wife.”

The word sends a visible shiver through her. “Say it again.”

“My wife.” I press a kiss to her shoulder, tasting her jasmine-scented skin. “My artist.” Another kiss along her collarbone, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips. “Mine.”

She melts into my touch, her hands coming up to tangle in my hair as I worship every inch of exposed skin. Each gasp, each tremor tells me exactly how to please her. I’m mapping her responses, memorizing what makes her breath catch, what makes her fingers tighten in my hair.

“Please,” she whimpers, and the sound nearly breaks my control.

“Please what?” I straighten, enjoying the flush spreading across her chest, the way her eyes have gone dark with desire. “Use your words,piccola.”

Instead of answering, she reaches for my shirt, pushing it off my shoulders with trembling hands. Her eyes widen at the sight of my scars—the one from Sophia’s bullet on my side, others from years of violence. But where I expect hesitation, I findreverence. She traces each mark with gentle fingers, learning my body like she’s memorizing it for a painting.

When she reaches the bullet scar, she pauses, her touch featherlight. “Does it still hurt?”

“No.” I catch her hand, pressing it flat against my chest where my heart thunders beneath her palm. “But this does.”

She understands my meaning—I see it in her eyes, in the way tears gather in those hazel depths even as she tries to smile. No one has ever looked at me like this, with such complete acceptance of both my strength and my vulnerability. Rising on her toes, she presses her lips to the scar on my shoulder, then the one on my side. Her tenderness undoes me more than any seduction could.

The last threads of my control snap. I lift her onto the bed, following her down into the crisp white sheets. Everything feels heightened, more intense—the softness of her skin against mine, the way her breath catches with each touch, the trust in her eyes as she welcomes me into her arms.

Italian endearments fall from my lips between kisses. “Tesoro mio,” I whisper against her throat. “Il mio cuore.” My treasure. My heart. Words I never thought I’d say again, yet they feel right with her.

“Tell me you want this,” I demand, needing to hear it. “Tell me you’re sure.”

“I want this.” She meets my eyes without hesitation, and the trust I see there steals my breath. “I want you, Matteo. All of you—the darkness and the light.”

I take my time admiring the black lace against her pale skin. The bra is clearly expensive—La Perla if I had to guess—but it’s the way she wears it that makes my mouth go dry. Her breasts rise and fall with each quick breath, the lace doing little to hide her peaked nipples.

“You’re staring,” she whispers, a blush spreading down her neck to her chest.

“How could I not?” My fingers trace the edge of the lace, feeling her shiver. “You’re exquisite.”

I reach behind her, unhooking the bra with practiced ease. She lets it fall away, and my breath catches. Her breasts are perfect—full but not too large, tipped with dusky pink nipples that beg for my mouth. When I cup them in my palms, testing their weight, she gasps.

“Sensitive,” I note, brushing my thumbs across the hardened peaks. Her whole body arches into the touch. “I’ll remember that.”

Those leggings have to go next. I peel them down slowly, revealing inches of soft skin until she stands before me in only black lace panties that match the discarded bra. My hands span her waist before sliding down to grip her hips.

Her hands tremble as she reaches for my belt, and the slight shake in her fingers makes something protective and primal surge in my chest. When the leather slides free, her breath catches. She’s nervous but determined, my brave little artist.

“Let me help you,” I murmur, guiding her hands to my zipper. The brush of her knuckles against me, even through layers of fabric, makes my muscles tense. She pushes my trousers down, and I step out of them, leaving me in just black boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how much I want her.

Her eyes widen when they drop to the obvious bulge, and that blush I’m growing addicted to stains her cheeks pink. Christ, her innocence is intoxicating. When her fingers hook hesitantly in the waistband of my underwear, I have to grip her wrists to stop her.

“Together,” I tell her, reaching for her panties. “Fair is fair,piccola.”

The last barriers fall away, and she’s finally, gloriously naked before me. She’s a masterpiece—all soft curves and elegant lines that would make Renaissance sculptors weep. Her waist nips in before flaring to gently rounded hips, and her legs seem endless.

When she finally sees me completely naked, her blush deepens but she doesn’t look away. She takes in every detail—the muscles honed by years of training, the scars that map my violent history, the very obvious evidence of my desire for her. I see the moment her gaze catches on my size, her lips parting slightly as her eyes widen.

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