Page 29 of Immoral

My tesoro glares at the hostess again and seethes, "Don't you even think about touching my husband again. Do you understand?"

The manager steps between the two women and holds his hands in the air. "I promise you I will take care of this. Can I show you to your table?"

Cara doesn't move. I put my hand on her back, deciding the show's over. "That would be great." I tilt her chin then slide my tongue in her mouth so fast she gasps. I kiss her until her knees buckle, making it loud and clear for anyone to see, including her, that she's mine.

I retreat an inch from her lips. Her blue flames meet mine, and the thought of not going to dinner enters my mind again. I push it away and slide my thumb along her cheek. I speak what's on my mind, but it's not about food, and Cara knows it. "I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"

Her lips twitch, and the temptation to find a dark corner overpowers me. Then her stomach growls. I chuckle. "Time to eat." I tug her into me then turn to the manager, avoiding the hostess at all costs. "Can you show us to our table?"

Relief fills his expression. He nods. "Right this way."

I guide Cara through the restaurant, puffing out my chest and standing a bit taller, happy she's my wife and thinking indecent thoughts.

Fuck, I want to eat her pussy.

How long has it been?

Too damn long.

I hope they put us in a booth. In a booth, I can at least slide my hands under her dress and edge her until she's begging me and hardly able to keep quiet.

Jesus, I've missed everything we had together.

I kick myself again for being a stupid moron years ago. The night before I left her in Italy, we fucked until early morning. After she fell asleep, I did, too, for a short time. I dreamed we were getting married. She was in the same dress she wore on the plane earlier today.

It freaked me out. The ironic part is, I was the happiest I'd ever been in my dream. I felt a similar high that day in the street when we saw the dress in the window. I knew it was perfect for her. Since then, that wedding gown has haunted me. Dreams of her wearing it plagued me all these years. I'd be elated in my dream then wake up to reality. It was a hard crash every time. I never felt so alone, and nothing I did to win her back worked.

We get to the table, and I groan inside. It's a small two-top, with seats across from one another. I glance around the room until I spot an empty booth. It's a half-circle meant for at least six people. A gold metal "Reserved" plaque is on it. I point to it. "I want that table, please."

The manager glances at it. He meets my gaze. "That's reserved for a party of six."

I squeeze Cara's hip and count to ten while scowling. One thing I'm used to is getting my way. And when I want something, I don't back down. In a calm but intimidating voice, I assert, "Your hostess upset my wife. It's our honeymoon. I want that table."

He clenches his jaw and red creeps into his face.

I arch my eyebrows, making it clear if he doesn't give me my way, he's going to have another battle on his hands.

He forces a smile. "Right this way." He turns to lead us to the booth.

Satisfaction races through me. It happens whenever I get what I want. "Thank you," I say when we get to the table. I motion for Cara to sit, and I slide in next to her.

"Carl will be with you shortly," the manager states then motions to a server who is carrying an empty tray to join us. When she gets to the table, he stacks the extra water, wineglasses, and silverware on her tray.

"Please bring bread right away. My wife hasn't eaten in a while," I order.

The manager nods.

They leave, and I slide my arm around Cara. I lean into her ear. "I like this new possessive side of you."

She turns to face me. "I wasn't just throwing words out, Gianni. If I'm your wife, I'm not going to turn a blind eye to your whores."

My stomach dives. "I don't have any whores, and I'm not going to."

Her expression hardens, as if she doesn't believe me.

I sternly declare, "I don't cheat, Cara."

She closes her eyes, moves her head away, and blows out a big breath.

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