“Aren’t you going to say a prayer before you eat?” she jokes, though her voice is thick with the same hunger burning in my chest.
I don’t smile back. I look her dead in the eye, my gaze heavy with a truth that transcends the games we're playing. “You don’t even realize it, Aspen. You are the answer to every prayer I've ever prayed. You’re the manifestation of every dream I didn'tthink I was allowed to have. I don’t know how I ever lived life without you or how I’ll ever survive it again.”
I don’t wait for her to process that. I lean in, my tongue finding the curve of her hip first and swirling through the caramel and cream. I am slow and deliberate as I savor the sugar of the syrup and the salt of her skin.
My hand finds her center, and I slide her lace panties to the side to play in her heat. My fingers are slick with her pleasure while my tongue works its way up her torso. I trace the elegant lines of her ribs, licking every stray, golden drop of syrup along the way.
I sink two fingers inside her.
“Fuck! Luca!” she yelps, her back arching off the cold marble.
“Soon, wife,” I whisper against her skin, my thumb finding her clit and tracing it with agonizing precision.
When my tongue finally reaches her breasts, I settle in. This is where the real fun begins. I swirl my tongue around the base of the whipped cream mountain, circling the peak before taking the cherry into my mouth. I pull on it, suckling until the cream dissolves and her nipple is pebble-hard and soaking wet against my tongue. I lean up, offering the cherry to her; she takes it from the tip of my tongue, her eyes blown wide.
“Good fucking girl,” I rasp.
She moans, her fingers tangling in my hair and pulling me closer, desperate for the friction as I systematically worship every inch of her.
I don’t just eat. I devour my bride like it was our wedding night and I’ve carried her across the threshold. By the time I’m finished, her skin is glowing, flushed, and stripped of everything but the scent of her skin.
“Still hungry?” she whispers, her legs tightening around my waist, pulling me into the heat of her.
“I’m starving,” I growl.
Chapter Fifteen
Pancakes, Croix + Complications
Aspen
Three months ago
My eyes aren’t open, but I can feel the morning light as it filters through my sheer curtains. It casts a soft, golden glow over the tangled sheets. I wake up with a smile so wide it actually hurts my cheeks. My skin still feels sensitized, buzzing with the afterglow of a night that felt less like a first time and more like a homecoming.
I try to shift, reaching for the edge of the bed to find my bearings, but I’m pinned. Luca’s arm is a heavy, warm band of muscle across my waist, and his chest is a solid wall against my back. He’s massive, taking up three-quarters of my mattress and making me feel tiny in the best way possible.
I wouldn't call myself especially experienced when it comes to sex. I didn’t lose my virginity until my sophomore year of college, and since then, I’ve only had two other serious boyfriends. I tried the one night stand thing twice and decided it wasn’t for me. And since I haven't exactly had an adventuroustrack record, I have no idea how to describe this first time making love to my husband.
He keeps saying he wants to take things slow, but every time he gets near me, he reveals a side of himself that makes me feel like I married a sex demon.
But I like it.
I wiggle my hips, trying to slide out from under him, but he just grunts and pulls me tighter, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
“Luca,” I huff, half-laughing as his stubble tickles my skin. “I have to pee!”
“No,” he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep and that raspy British lilt.
“I’m serious! I have to pee!” I scream-whisper.
He lets out a low, vibrating laugh and finally loosens his grip just enough for me to scramble out of bed. I put on my grey T-shirt and practically bolt to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror as I shut the door.
I look...worked over. In a good way. Since I went to sleep without my bonnet, my hair is a complete disaster. My lips are swollen and bruised from his kisses, and a faint dusting of whisker burn marks my collarbone. And maybe my inner thigh. I lean against the sink, my thoughts starting to spiral. I’m married. I’m actually, legally married to a man I barely know, yet I know exactly how he tastes and how he rasps my name when he’s losing control.
My mother would be lighting a prayer candle for my soul if she knew I’d spent the night serving as a culinary “masterpiece” on a kitchen island. But I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face whenever I think about the way he called me Ms. Mysterious as he wrapped his hand around my ponytail, and pushed his dick all the way down my throat.
The man is too much for words.
