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It’s big, frothy, something that would make an Italian Nonna faint, and he just agreed with me each step of the way.
Niko might love me, but one thing’s clear: he doesn’t want fanfare. Part of me wants to flounce off, crying that he doesn’t want to marry me, and maybe he doesn’t, not the man and wife and priest and chattel parts. But the flouncy part can go jump in a lake. What Niko wants is me. Forever. His wife in the truest sense. His property, his partner, his love, just like he’d be mine.
I take a breath.
I’m not sure I want it, either. After all, this love, this bond and sealing of it, is me and him, not everyone else. I want him as mine. I want the rings and what they symbolize, and okay, maybe I want a pretty dress and a ceremony of sorts, but I want it on our terms. I just—
“Rose?” Nikolai jolts me from my thoughts. “It’s been some kind of fucked up week,” he says.
“We should talk about the wedding,” I tell him.
“Again? I’m fucking talked out right now.” He looks at me with a slow rake of a look. “Hungry? I am.”
I nod.
“Good.” He smiles slowly. “I’ll make you dinner.”
* * *
In the pretty country kitchen with the big wooden table, Nikolai’s got a big white tablecloth set up with two candles burning. I don’t smell dinner, but there’s a knife and chopping board and what looks like a steaming pot on the stove.
Two chairs are done up with white cushions, and he turned the lights off. He’s still in his dark charcoal suit, pale ice blue shirt, and dark blue tie, with his black onyx cufflinks and one of his insanely expensive watches on. He’s perfect, not a button out of place.
My stomach flutters as he sips his whiskey, and he points to a flute with tiny bubbles. “I didn’t know we were dressing up.”
Nikolai just smiles. “Take off your dress.”
My hand flies to the top of the summery floral number. “W-What?”
“Didn’t you read your note?”
I look at him, confused. “What note?”
“Naked Roses only allowed.”
“I…” Everything in me turns into liquid heat. “You didn’t send one.”
“My fucking bad, Rose.”
My hands tremble as I reach to the back and lower the zipper, letting the dress fall to the floor.
“No bra. Well, that’s a start.” He drops his gaze to my covered pussy. “Panties off.”
I do as asked, right as what he meant hits me: Me. I’m his dinner.
He hands me my drink and sips his, walking around me but not touching. The anticipation pulls taut and unbearable in my gut. He’s so close; he could touch me, but he doesn’t. He just inspects me with a look that’s both predatory and detached; it drives me almost insane and makes my knees weak.
“You think I don’t notice how naughty you’ve been, Rose? How you think just because I mightenjoyyou, want to mark you as mine to the world, it gives you permission to speak back, to hit me?”
“I…I’m sorry, Nikolai.”
The smile is cold, nasty, filthy as hell. “Just because you hitting me turned me on doesn’t negate the fact that you did it without permission.”
“I’m sorry,” I moan. Oh God, I love this Nikolai. I hate him, resent him, lust after him, live to please him, and I haven’t seen him for a while. Not this one.
I’m quivering. Dripping. Ready to debase myself for just one touch. This Nikolai is cruel and cold enough to deny me everything, and it turns me on even more.
He’s so fucking close, and he still refuses to touch me. “You don’t think I forgot how you got on the floor and tortured my cock? I didn’t. Just for that, for all that, get on the chair. On your knees, hold the back.”
