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“Got it. That’s a fair compromise.”
“Glad you agree,” he says sarcastically, reminding me that he truly doesn’t have to agree and doesn’t care if I do. “Now. I’ll order wine. Are you hungry?”
“For once in my life, no, but give me a minute.”
Not only did I feast before we came here, but my nerves are galloping through me so hard and fast I couldn’t eat now if I tried. I stifle a yawn, but he notices.
He nods. “Fair enough.”
I jump when he pushes himself off the doorframe.
“You’re skittish, like a little rabbit.”
“Well I… never have been before but… you’re kind of scary.”
“Scary?” he repeats and holds his hands up in the air. “I’m on my best behavior.”
“That doesn’t quite help your case,” I say honestly.
A casual shrug. Why does even that look sexy? “I wasn’t trying to.”
I don’t realize I’m backing up as he advances on me until my back hits the porcelain vanity. My eyes graze over the stubble on his cheeks, the hard slash of his mouth in a perpetual frown, his tanned skin. I’ve seen him move with the grace and power of a tiger, but have only ever seen him fully dressed. On the cusp of being stark naked with him, curiosity pings me.
What’s he look like under all that cumbersome clothing?
“We’re alone now, sweetheart. We have a job to do. You’re tired, and you want some wine, and I’ll grant you both wine and a nap. But this will be on my terms now. Do we understand?”
Oh, we do. I nod.
“Good girl. Then strip.”
Strip!
“Like… naked?”
A muscle tightens in his jaw. Uh oh. “You’re trying my patience, Marialena.”
I nod and swallow and stumble forward so I can do what he says. This is a normal thing, I tell myself.
He’s my husband, I tell myself.
I keep myself in good shape and all that, and there is no reason he shouldn’t like what he sees, I tell myself.
My hands still tremble on the buttons, and after I try to undress myself, I quickly realize it’s a two-person job.
“I can’t reach the buttons,” I say on a whisper, to the floor.
“Turn around, then.”
My knees tremble when I turn to face the vanity, which gives me the perfect view of a huge, oval-shaped mirror and my husband’s hungry gaze.
Frowning, intent on doing his job, he begins at the very top.
“I don’t know why wedding dresses have these ridiculous buttons,” I chatter nervously. “I mean, is it a crime to put a damn zipper in?”
I draw in a breath when he straightens and meets my gaze in the mirror. “No cursing out of my wife’s mouth.”
My jaw drops. No cursing? Good Lord, how did I marry a mafia Puritan?
