Chapter 38
Vito's POV
The woman in my arms was trembling like a leaf in a storm, her body pressed against mine in ways that set every nerve ending on fire. Isabella. My wife. The thought sent a surge of possessive satisfaction through me that was both primitive and absolute.
She belongs to me now. Only to me.
I could see everything—every flush that painted her skin, every catch in her breathing, every flutter of her pulse beneath the delicate skin of her throat. She had no idea how transparent she was to me, how clearly I could read the war between desire and fear that raged in her dark eyes.
My fingers moved against her with deliberate precision, and I watched her body arch involuntarily into my touch.
She thinks I can't see her. She has no idea how beautiful she looks right now.
But even as pleasure built in her expression, even as her breathing became ragged with need, she couldn't stop herself from fighting it. Fighting me.
"I can't," she whispered, her head falling back as my fingers found exactly the right spot. "This is—we shouldn't—"
Dishonest little thing. Even faced with her own desire, she couldn't admit what she wanted. It was almost endearing, this stubborn refusal to acknowledge what her body was telling her so clearly.
I'd been raised to be a gentleman. My family had drilled courtesy and respect into me from the moment I could speak. Under normal circumstances, I would never dream of speaking to a woman—especially my wife—with such crude language.
But Isabella wasn't responding to gentle persuasion. She was too wrapped up in her own shame, too determined to deny what was happening between us. If I didn't push her, if I didn't force her to confront her own desires, she'd spend our entire marriage hiding from me.
"Stop pretending," I commanded, my voice deliberately harsh. "Stop lying to yourself about what you want."
My fingers increased their pressure, and I felt her whole body jolt with sensation. "You're going to come for me. Right here, right now, and you're going to stop pretending you don't want it."
The words were coarser than anything I'd normally say, more brutal than my grandfather would approve of. But they had the desired effect. Isabella's resistance crumbled, her body surrendering completely to the pleasure I was giving her.
"That's it," I murmured against her ear as she began to shake apart in my arms. "Be honest with me. Show me what you really want."
When she finally came undone, the sounds she made were music to my ears. Her climax was so intense it left her sobbing, her face buried against my shoulder as waves of sensation crashed over her.
As she cried against my shoulder, I lifted my free hand to stroke her hair with gentle fingers. The contrast between the roughness of my words and the tenderness of this gesture wasn't lost on me.
"There's my honest girl," I said softly, my voice returning to its normal cultured tone. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"
She hiccupped against my neck, her tears warm against my skin. "You're horrible," she mumbled, but there was no real anger in it.
"I'm effective," I corrected, continuing to stroke her hair. "And you're beautiful when you stop lying to yourself."
The aftermath brought an unexpected intimacy. She remained curled in my lap, her head resting on my shoulder while I traced lazy patterns along her bare back. The wedding dress that had cost more than most people's cars was now a rumpled mess around us, but neither of us seemed to care.
"I can't believe we just did that," she said quietly.
"Which part? The part where you came apart in my arms, or the part where you admitted you wanted it?"
She lifted her head to glare at me, though her eyes were still red-rimmed from tears. "You're smug."
"I'm satisfied," I replied. "There's a difference."
The easy banter, the way she fit against me, the gradual relaxation of her guard.
When was the last time I felt this comfortable with someone?
The thought caught me off guard. I'd spent years surrounded by people who either feared me or wanted something from me. Associates who respected my power but would never dare speak to me with such casual insolence. Women who were drawn to my wealth and status but intimidated by my reputation.
But Isabella had called me smug to my face. She'd challenged me, negotiated with me, defended me to a room full of New York's elite when they'd spoken about me with cruel dismissal. She treated me like a man rather than a monster or a saint.
Grandfather was right. She will make an excellent wife.
The realization should have brought pure satisfaction. Instead, it came with an uncomfortable twist in my chest.
If Maria hadn't appeared...
The thought formed before I could stop it. If I'd never found Maria, if the woman from my childhood had remained lost to me, would I have been able to love Isabella freely? Would I have been able to give her the devotion she deserved rather than the conflicted affection of a man torn between past promises and present desires?
Isabella shifted in my arms, her fingers tracing absent patterns against my shirt. "How is Maria?" she asked quietly.
The question hit me like cold water, and I felt my entire body go rigid. Maria. The woman I'd spent twenty years searching for, the one I'd promised to marry and protect. The woman I'd completely forgotten existed while I was making love to my wife.
"She's fine," I said curtly.
Isabella must have sensed the change in my mood because she lifted her head to study my face with those perceptive dark eyes. "I saw you rush off during the reception. You seemed very concerned about her."
"She had an episode. She needed medical attention."
"And you don't need to be with her now?" There was something carefully neutral in her tone, but I could hear the underlying question. Are you going to abandon me for her again?
"Would you prefer your new husband spent his wedding night with another woman?"
She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers stilling against my chest. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"It wouldn't matter what I preferred, would it? You've made it clear where your priorities lie."
The resignation in her tone sparked an unexpected flare of anger in my chest. Not at her, but at the situation. At the impossible position I'd put us both in by trying to honor contradictory obligations.
"Let me be very clear about my priorities, Mrs. Romano," I said, my voice taking on the authoritative edge that made grown men step back. "I will give you the treatment a wife deserves. That includes sharing your bed, sharing your life, being present for the important moments."
I paused, making sure she was listening. "Including tonight."
Her sharp intake of breath was audible in the candlelit room. "What about Maria?"
"What about her?"
"She needs you—"
"And you're my wife." The words came out with finality that surprised even me. "That means something in this family. It means everything."
I loosened my arms around her, giving her space to move. "Go take a bath," I instructed. "Clean yourself up. When you come out, I'll still be here."
She started to slide off my lap, then paused. "You're confusing," she said, her voice carrying a mixture of frustration and something that might have been affection. "One minute you're this controlled, proper businessman, the next you're..." She gestured vaguely at the rumpled mess of her dress, at the evidence of what had just transpired between us.
"What am I?" I asked, genuinely curious about her perception.
"Changeable. Unpredictable." She stood up, holding the ruined silk against her chest in a futile attempt at modesty. "Like some emotional monster who can't decide what he wants."
The description made me laugh—actually laugh, the sound rich and genuine in a way that surprised us both. "A monster, am I?"
"The worst kind, the kind that makes you forget you're supposed to be afraid of him."
So brave. Even disheveled and vulnerable, she faced me with that stubborn chin lifted in defiance.
"Well then, brave little bride," I said, letting my amusement color my voice, "you have a choice. You can undress yourself for that bath, or you can let the monster help you out of what's left of that dress."
The flush that spread across her cheeks was spectacular. "I can manage on my own, thank you."
"Pity," I replied. "I was looking forward to playing lady's maid."
She clutched the silk tighter against her chest and backed toward what I assumed was the bathroom door. "You're impossible."
"I'm patient," I corrected. "For now."