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I stand and walk across to him on wobbly knees with my belly doing flip flops. By the time I reach him my mouth is dry and my heart beats faster.
My new husband is Italian-fold-out-model hot. When his gaze roves over my body I can tell he likes what he sees.
Would it be uncouth of me to ask him to take his shirt off? He can keep the money, but if he has the abs I think he’s hiding under those clothes…
What do those vows get me, anyway?
He’s loosened his tie and unfastened the top two buttons of his dress shirt. There's a little “V” of olive-colored skin in sharp contrast with the white fabric of his T-shirt. His shoulders are broad enough that he would dwarf my small frame.
I wonder what it would be like to be under his weight. I wonder what it would be like to be pinned beneath him.
I wonder what his chosen method of inflicting pain will be…
Something tells me he knows how to make it better, with those large fingers of his, those warm, strong, capable hands that are going about my waist just about now.
My hands come to rest on his shoulders. We stare at each other.
He would make it all better with those lips, too, I'm sure of it. His mouth is all curves and sensual seduction. The masculine cut of his chin makes him look stern, but his eyes dance in a way that's almost boyish, like a cat who’s just cornered a mouse and is planning on having a little fun.
Catseatmice, Quinn.
I swallow.
A shock of dark, longish hair hits his forehead. A scruffy beard lines his jaw, and though he's neatly groomed, he looks a bit roguish, like… like a criminal should, I suppose.
Because make no mistake, Adriano Bruno is absolutely a criminal.
He doesn't care about modern conveniences, he doesn't care what people think. He doesn’t care about niggling things like the law, and I am fully confident the way he’s earned his money is well outside the status quo. He might be an asshole, but God do I admire the level ofdo not give a fuckthat makes the men of the Montavio Brotherhood fearless.
He reaches a hand to my cheek and gently strokes it. I want to reach for his hand and hold him here.
"Six months is a long time," he says. "But at the same time, it isn't long at all."
Yeah, I wonder where he's going with that…
I better change the subject.
"So, when are we going to this party?"
"We have two hours."
"Two hours is an even shorter time.”
"Did you have something you needed to do?" he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm. I can't tell if he's teasing or making fun of me or both.
"Yeah, like prepare for it? I'm supposed to be pretending to be your wife…"
He quickly sobers. "There's no pretending at this stage, Quinn."
Hoo, boy.
"You know what I mean," I say. "Listen, I don't know anything about you. You don't know anything about me. What if people start asking questions?"
"I'm a lot more concerned with whether or not you're going to sass me in public." Those big, sexy, manly hands of his flex on my hips.
"Say what?"
He narrows his eyes. “You're illustrating my point beautifully."
