“Yours, Dante. I’m yours.”
“Dio.” His hips snap forward, brutal, precise. “You were made for this. For me. You feel that? How good you take my cock?”
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, meeting him stroke for stroke. The bed creaks beneath us, the headboard thudding against the wall. Somewhere outside, the reception is still going, music and laughter drifting through the open window.
“They can hear us,” I gasp.
“Let them.”
“Harder.”
He obeys. Drives into me so deep I taste it at the back of my throat. My nails rake down his back and the sound he gives me is guttural, animal, a sound from somewhere beneath language.
He sits back on his heels, pulling me with him, and I’m in his lap, impaled on him, eye to eye with the man I married. Helocks onto my hips. His chest heaves. Sweat glistens along his collarbone.
“Ride me.”
I do. I roll my hips, finding a rhythm that makes us both groan. He clutches my waist, not guiding, just holding on. Like he’s the one drowning and I’m the only solid thing left.
And I take.
I want him wrecked. Desperate. Ruined. Every time he looks at me after tonight, he’ll remember this.
I pick up the pace, grinding down on him, clenching around him. A broken sound tears from his chest.
“You’re close,” I say. Not a question.
“Fuck. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
“Look at me.” I cup his face in my hands. Force his eyes to mine. “Come inside your wife.”
He lets go. I feel every pulse of him inside me, the way his whole body locks up and trembles, the broken syllable of my name cracking against my throat. His arms crush me to his chest, his face buried in my neck, shaking, shaking, and I hold him through it.
The sight of him undone, this powerful man falling apart in my arms, pushes me over the edge right after. The wave rolls through me, pulling and pulling, and I break with his name in my throat and his heartbeat hammering against my ribs.
We fall back together. Tangled. Spent. His arms still locked around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
After, we lie in ruined sheets. He traces lazy patterns on my hip. My head rests on his chest, rising and falling with him. The jasmine-scented air drifts through the window, carrying the faint sound of music.
He’s still inside me. Neither of us has moved to separate. I don’t want to. I want to stay here, skin to skin, connected, real.
He strokes through my hair, slow and careful, untangling the pins Giada spent an hour placing. One by one he pulls them free and sets them on the nightstand, the tiny clicks loud in the quiet room.
“We should go back,” I murmur.
“In a minute.”
Neither of us moves.
The gold dress is pooled on the floor, a shimmer of candlelight against the dark wood. My underwear is somewhere near the door. His shirt, missing half its buttons, didn’t even make it to the bed.
“They’re going to know,” I say.
“They already know.” His voice is lazy, satisfied, roughened. “Nonna Rosa saw me drag you out of the garden. She’s planning her comments for tomorrow.”
I laugh against his chest. “She’ll make beignets and pretend she doesn’t know anything.”
“That’s what she’ll do.”
