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Gigi squeezes my hand and walks away, leaving me standing in the bathroom, whiplashed. I look like Don Scalera, not a carbon copy, but I’m physically his son in every way. I grip the vanity, listening to how she unzips her suitcase and rummages through her things in the bedroom. My heart hammers in my chest.
I’m standing frozen, the idea that I’m mymother’sson pounding in my head when Gigi comes to stand in the bathroom door, dressed in the old-fashioned nightgown I bought for her.
Fuck.She probably thinks it’s the demurest of them all, but her shape shows through the delicate cotton, the darker shade of her nipples barely visible where the fabric is gathered at the bodice. Already, I want to crumple the soft material up and stroke her naked ass, fall to my knees and press her pussy to my tongue.
I look away. This is going to be the longest fake marriage of my life. I don’t plan another one. I brush my teeth and wrap up my own bedtime routine while she packs her things out on the vanity.
“I’ll give you space.”
I close the door behind her and stare at the bed. She’s never slept with a man before. In this way, she’s almost virginal, and the notion pleases me more than it should.
I go downstairs to switch off the lights and get a gun from the safe. Wedding day and all, I’d boosted the bodyguards so I could forego the usual weapons. Irrespective of Dominic’s security upgrades, though, I’m not sleeping without a gun within arm’s reach. By the time I head upstairs again, Gigi is finished in the bathroom and hovers by the window, taking in the city lights.
I pad over to her and take her hand. “Come, angel.”
I lead her to the bed and open the covers for her. It would be the decent thing to make up a story about having work to do, or a few calls to make. A nightclub or ten to go boss over. Anything really to give her time to fall asleep alone.
But I’m not a decent guy. I’m the guy who wants to spoon my wife’s ass and fondle her breasts as I watch her drift into sleep. So instead, I strip and slip under the covers right behind her.
32
GIGI
My husband is a professional cuddler. He’s pulled a pillow closer and has stretched his arm out for me to rest my head on. Now, he’s nudged my hips right into his, and I can feel him harden as he bundles up my gown to my thighs so he can have his hand on my bare skin. I hate how I love this so much, how I literally want to melt into his arms and die right there.
“Ignore that,” he whispers in my neck.
“It’s hard to ignore,” I whisper back, and we both chuckle at the innuendo.
I can’t help wondering how different the night in Cannes would’ve been if I hadn’t insulted him in the first place. His demons and mine are matched, married in a way I’ve never thought possible. He’s done so much for us since we arrived in Boston, and I don’t know how any of this is going to pan out. I’ve not been let into any of the Scaleras’ plans on how they’re going to deal with Franco Fiore, but I’ve never felt as safe and treasured as I have in this moment.
He presses a soft kiss below my ear. “Sleep tight, angel.”
At this rate, there’s not going to be any sleeping involved. Wisps of desire are tugging at my sex, wanting more…wantingall of him. I can’t be so weak and cave in on our first night. I know it’s just sex, and I might be physically safe, but my heart has never been in bigger danger before. Something about him is worming its way into all my empty places that are longing for moments like this.
His erection is distracting, and I bet he wants to nestle it between my butt cheeks, but it will only make me want it inside me. “This isn’t going to work, Steph,” I say into the dark.
“No?” he says as he innocently rocks into me, a smile in his voice.
He’s playful too. Of course he is. All the signs were there that night in Cannes.
I’m still surprised he told me about his past earlier in the bathroom. It broke my heart. We’re just Mafia kids grown into Mafia adults, fucked up in so many ways. Even though he doesn’t know it or trust himself, this man will never hurt a woman. I have no idea if Stephano has it in him to kill a man. Not with the brutality Franco will unleash if he gets to him first.
At the thought, I swallow at the tightening in my throat. The last thing I need is to become teary now.
“Turn around, husband,” I whisper as I do the same, nudging him onto his side so I can spoon him instead.
Deep inside this man, there is a boy who suffered abuse at his father’s hand, still seeking forgiveness for the things he was forced to do and didn’t understand. I press the softest kiss possible to his back as he complies, hoping he won’t feel it.
When I wake up, the bed next to me is empty, and light streams in through the tall windows. Good heavens. By the height of the sun, it’s way past ten o’clock in the morning. This bed…thisman…his arms. We might have fallen asleep with me holding him, but at some point, he’d cradled me. I haven’t slept like this for years.
I curl up and press my nose to his pillow which is indented with the shape of his head. I inhale slowly and suppress a curse. I might be developing a problem. Also known as a crush on my fake husband.
A crush is fine. Those come and go. It’s the deeper feelings I need to steer clear of. As I sit up and stretch, voices sound from downstairs. A female’s and Stephano’s. I sneak out of bed and pad over to the railing to peek down, just in time to see him squeeze a blonde by the arm as he opens the front door for her.
She turns and smiles at him. So pretty. Thick blonde hair. Toned arms in a sleeveless top. Skin-tight jeans and heels that are a bitch to walk in, but which she does with ballerina grace. She slips a file into a tote bag as another woman comes to stand in the open door. This one is as stunning as the first, but a redhead. Smiles and hugs between the two women and then the new one steps up to Stephano and he hugs her close.
Unnecessary jealousy spears through me.No, no, no. I can’t. I rush to the bathroom where I close the door quietly and lean against it.
