Page 23 of Bitter Arrangement

She walks down the aisle escorted by her grim-looking brother. But everything around her disappears. Riley floats along in a long-sleeved lacy dress, tight at the top with a pleated billowing skirt. It doesn’t show an ounce of skin, and she still somehow makes it look obscene. Her auburn hair’s half up in a complicated braid and there are flowers woven through it.

She looks like a Celtic warrior queen from legend.

Her brother deposits her across from me, and our eyes lock. She stares at me, lips parted slightly, and I think about what they must taste like.

I know how she sounds when she comes.

But a fucking kiss?

I barely hear the priest as he drones on through the ceremony. I’m too busy thinking about my wife’s body pressed to mine, her skin flushed and sweaty as her back arches and she begs for more.

Is this what a man is supposed to have on his mind during his wedding?

We exchange rings. We repeat the vows. There’s no time to talk, no time to discuss how we’re going to do this, no practice, no point in any of it. Because it doesn’t really matter.

This is happening. The dozen or more men sitting in the pews with guns under their jackets will make sure of it.

The old priest clears his throat. “By the power vested in me by the Church and the State of Maryland, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He gestures toward us. “You may kiss the bride.”

There’s a moment, just a brief moment, where I’m not sure I’ll do it. Because I know myself, and I know how I’m dangling over the edge with her, already deeply obsessed, and anything could toss me over into the abyss. I’m afraid this kiss is going to do it. One taste and I’ll never want to stop tasting her again.

But she moves forward, and when I put a hand on the small of her back and feel her warm body against mine, I’m fucking lost.

“Hey, Alexan,” she whispers, smiling slightly.

“Thief,” I say, then press my lips to hers.

It’s a brief brush at first, but soon the kiss turns into something more. Hungry, desperate, needy, everything all at once. Her taste is lilacs and honey and pollen. It floods my mouth like bliss. I growl against her tongue, and it takes all my strength not to palm her hair and drag her head back to expose her long, pale throat.

Instead, I step away, heart hammering in my chest, and she stares at me with her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide like she can’t believe what just happened.

But then the music plays again, and everyone claps, and we’re swept along toward the reception. I want to stay by her side, but we get separated almost immediately as she’s surrounded by her family and I’m surrounded by mine. Her brother and her maid of honor shadow her the whole time like they’re protecting her from the rest of the family. I find that very curious.

“You did it,” Tigran says, grinning like a hawk, his blonde Russian wife, Dasha, leaning against his side.

“She’s beautiful,” Dasha says and gives me a quick hug. “You’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

“And that was one hell of a kiss.” Arsen appears, thepatronof the Brotherhood. He shakes my hand firmly and pats my shoulder. “Well done, Alexan. I know we can count on you to really seal the deal.”

“He means we need you to impregnate her as soon as possible.” Tigran bellows a laugh and shoves a drink in my hand. “Not that you’ll need this to figure out what to do with her.”

I mutter the proper thanks, not used to being the center of attention. I keep looking across the room at her. She’s glowing and incredible as she hugs and kisses her aunts and uncles.

It’s not until the dances that I finally get a moment alone with her.

She seems almost shy as Frank Sinatra plays. I don’t know who picked this shit, and it doesn’t matter. I put my hands on her and gently pull her closer. We sway together as I breathe in her smell.

“You look good,” I say quietly, aware of all the people staring at us, but not really caring.

“Thanks. I hate this dress.”

“You didn’t pick it?”

“I had pretty much nothing to do with any of this.” She laughs lightly. “It’s not terrible though, right?”

“Which part?” I ask, moving closer, unable to help myself. My hands move lower on her hips. “The marriage? Or the reception?”

“Both,” she whispers.

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