Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I come so hard I scream, body convulsing around his cock, the walls of my pussy clenching and fluttering as wave after wave rips through me. Tears slip down my cheeks from the intensity. He keeps fucking me through it, hips snapping faster now, chasing his own release. His mouth crashes back to mine, swallowing every cry, tongue thrusting in time with his cock. I gasp into his mouth as another orgasm crashes over me, body arching off the bed, nails raking down his back through his shirt.
He groans my name against my lips—low, rough, broken—and thrusts once more, burying himself deep as he comes, pulsing hot and thick inside me. The sensation tips me over again, another shuddering climax that leaves me trembling and boneless beneath him.
Then I wake up with a jolt.
It is morning. The day of my wedding.
He didn’t come back. It was only a dream, but it was so intense and vivid. It felt so freaking real. Hell, I can still feel the pleasure coursing through my body, the ghost of his hands gripping my hips, and the echo of that intense release still pulsing through my core. My nightgown is twisted around my thighs, damp with sweat, and my pulse is racing like I just ran miles.
I press my face into the pillow, breathing hard, ragged, trying to push it away. But the heat and the want linger, deep and dangerous, coiling tighter with every breath I take.
Today I marry him.
And I am already terrified of how much I crave him.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. My skin is sticky, and my nipples are hard, aching points, and when I shift, the friction sends a fresh spark straight to my clit. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to force the sensation away, but it only makes it worse.
This isn’t me. Or at least it isn’t the me I’ve spent years pretending to be—the cool, untouchable woman who never lets anyone see her break. But last night’s dream cracked something open inside me, and now I can’t close it. I imagine him today—standing at the altar in a dark suit, eyes locked on mine as he says the vows that will make me his. I imagine his hands on me after the ceremony, slow and deliberate, peeling away every layer until there’s nothing left between us. I imagine the way he’ll look when he finally sinks into me, the way his control will finally snap.
A whimper escapes me before I can stop it. My hand drifts down my stomach again, fingers trembling as they brush the sensitive skin just above my mound. I stop myself at the last second, clenching my fist instead. No. Not now. Not when the real thing is only hours away.
But the thought of waiting—of standing beside him in that little church, saying yes in front of witnesses while this fire burns under my skin—makes me want to scream.
I roll over again, press my thighs together hard, and bury my face in the pillow. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to force calm, force anything that isn’t this relentless, throbbing need.
It doesn’t work.
All I can see is him. All I can feel is him.
Today I marry Ricci Santori.
And I am terrified—not of him, but of myself because if I do not control my attraction to him, then it is very clear to me now that I will be in big trouble.
Chapter Sixteen
RICCI
The Church feels like it was carved out of some old, half-forgotten dream—the air carries that quiet, sacred smell of old wood, candle wax, and centuries of whispered vows.
Leonardo stands at my side as best man, hands clasped in front of him, trying—and failing—to look solemn. He keeps shifting his weight, glancing sideways at me like he’s still not sure this is real. On Viola’s side of the aisle, her sister Fabiola and her mother sit in the front pew, faces tight with worry and barely concealed disapproval. Fabiola’s lips are pressed into a thin line; her mother’s hands twist in her lap like she’s praying this is all a mistake. If I am honest, no one looks happy—not the priest, not even the handful of witnesses I allowed in. But I don’t care if the whole world disapproves. My heart is racing so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, and in my ears. She walks toward me, and my breath catches, sharp and painful.
She looks beautiful. Her blonde hair is swept into a soft half-up, half-down updo, a few loose strands framing her face and catching the colored light from the windows. The dress is simple satin, ivory and sleek, skimming her slim body without the extravagance of her first wedding. No lace, no train, no princess drama. Just her.