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When the song ends, Dmitri takes my hand and tows me upstairs. We don’t bother saying goodbye to anyone; I’d call it an “Irish goodbye,” but we’re not exactly on good terms with them right now, and besides, no one does it quite as swiftly as Dmitri does, anyway.
It’s funny how my heart can race and my palms can go clammy as we ride the elevator up to our suite. I’ve done this so many times before—knowing what’s coming, this hyper-awareness of myself and Dmitri, of the things drawing us together—but it always feels like the first time.
The tension.
The held breath.
The sneaky glances in his direction, stolen whenever I think he might not be looking.
His fingers stay laced through mine as we get off and sweep into our room. It’s jaw-dropping, but I barely get a millisecond to enjoy the surroundings before Dmitri is pinning me to the nearest wall with his hips.
I can’t help but gasp. “Call me your wife,” I demand saucily. “I want to hear you say it.”
Dmitri’s eyebrow arches. “Only a few hours married and you’re already issuing orders? This ‘queen’ thing has gone straight to your head.”
“It certainly has. Someone has to keep things running right around here.”
He palms my throat and bends down to run the tiniest tip of his tongue in the sensitive spot behind my ear. I shiver again, with heat blossoming right alongside goosebumps, like my body can’t decide whether to freeze over or burn to pieces in Dmitri’s arms.
“I’ve got some ideas for ways we could improve the situation.”
“Oh? Tell me. I’m all ears.”
“I think I’ll show you instead.”
Then, with a savage blur of motion, Dmitri rips my dress to absolute ribbons. One second, I’m clothed head to toe in Madison Montgomery’s finest lace; the next, it’s fluttering like snowflakes around us and Dmitri’s teeth are bared like he’s a wild animal.
Part of me wants to be mad.
But that part is very, very small.
And the part of Dmitri that I’ll take as a consolation prize isn’t small at all.
We’re on each other as soon as I’m stripped out of my gown. Mouths clashing, tongues warring, hands pawing. I’d call it “passionate,” but that doesn’t even come close to doing it justice.
It’s fucking feral, really. Damn near unhinged. It’s like I can’t get close enough to him and vice versa. I’m ripping at his clothes the exact same way he ripped at mine—albeit slightly less effectively—and kissing and suckling everywhere my mouth can reach.
We stumble into the bedroom and flop on our backs. Dmitri kisses a path down my body, then tears away the flimsy scrap of my underwear.
He licks me to an instantaneous orgasm.
Fucks me to another.
Spoons me in his arms until I can breathe again, then does it all over.
And the whole time, he keeps whispering, “My wife. My wife. My wife.”
I ride the blur like I’m in some kind of bliss-suffused fever dream until I snap back to reality hours later, as we’re soaking in the tub. It’s lazy, delirious, perfect. Rose petals float on the surface of the water and the air smells like honey blossom and gardenias.
Dmitri feeds me chocolate truffles and sips of sparkling grape juice. And if his fingers wander between my legs and get me off again—well, he’s my husband, so I’d say that’s permitted.
I close my eyes, but I don’t fall asleep—it’s more like just dozing. Why would I sleep, anyway? What would be the point? Real life is so much better than anything I could dream.
35
WREN
“Why can’t I just stay home?”
