Page 92 of Savage Union
When I pull back, her eyes remain closed for a beat longer than necessary, lashes dark against her flushed cheeks. When they open, the desire I see reflected there matches my own.
"We can't," she whispers, but her hands betray her, coming to rest on my shoulders rather than pushing me away. "Not here."
"Why not here?" I move closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. The dress rustles softly, layers of fabric creating a barrier I'm determined to navigate.
"Because—" she draws a sharp breath as my lips find the sensitive spot just below her ear "—we're in a bridal salon. Someone could walk in."
"The door is locked," I murmur against her skin. "And my security is outside."
"Still..." Her protest weakens as my hands find their way beneath the layers of her dress, seeking the warmth of her skin.
"Still?" I prompt, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze.
She gestures vaguely at the dress. "It's... it would be disrespectful. To the white. To the dress."
The unexpected sentiment surprises me. This woman, who has defied me at every turn, who makes no secret of herresentment for our arranged marriage, suddenly concerned about respecting the symbolism of a wedding dress.
"I had no idea you were so traditional," I observe, unable to keep a hint of amusement from my tone.
Her eyes flash with annoyance. "I'm not. It's just—" She breaks off, seeming to search for words. "Some things should remain... I don't know. Sacred?"
The irony isn't lost on me—the woman who doesn't want this marriage still holding certain aspects of the ritual in reverence. It's another fascinating contradiction in the increasingly complex puzzle that is Caterina Gallo.
"Then we'll respect the dress," I concede, my hands shifting to her waist. "But that doesn't mean I can't worship you in other ways."
Before she can question my meaning, I begin to kneel, carefully gathering the fabric of her dress to keep it from touching the floor as I do. The significance of the gesture—me on my knees before her—isn't lost on either of us. In my world, I kneel to no one. Yet here I am, willingly lowering myself before this woman who has somehow breached defenses I thought impenetrable.
Her breath catches as understanding dawns. "Vito, you can't?—"
"I can," I counter, looking up at her from my position. "The question is: will you let me?"
The power dynamic shifts in that moment—me physically below her, yet still controlling the encounter; her standing above me, yet vulnerable in her desire. Her hands clutch at the fabric of her dress, knuckles white with tension or anticipation or both.
"This is madness," she whispers, but there's no conviction in her voice.
"Most worthwhile things are." I maintain eye contact as my hands find her ankles, then slowly trace upward along her calves. "Say no, and I'll stop."
She doesn't say no. Instead, she bites her lower lip, a gesture of uncertainty that sends heat coursing through me. Her silence is permission enough.
I take my time, savoring the journey, mindful of her concern for the dress even as I gradually ease it upward. When I reach the edge of her underwear, I pause, giving her one final chance to reconsider.
"Vito..." My name on her lips sounds like both a plea and a prayer.
“Yes or no,bambola?” My voice is low, dangerous, but not unkind. She needs to give it to me. I won’t take it.
Her consent isn’t loud.
It’s not even verbal.
It’s in the slight widening of her stance, the way her breath catches, the way her fingers flex against the counter like she’s already bracing for impact. The barest nod. But I see it.
Ifeelit.
And it’s all the permission I need.
I drop to my knees behind her like a sinner worshipping at a forbidden altar.
What follows isn’t hurried. It’s not greedy. It’sritual.
