Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 39068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
“Punishment’s over. You took it well.” I kiss her bare shoulder, and she shivers.
“Why are you doing this?”
I stroke my palm along her bare side, relishing the feel of her soft skin. “Because I can, Principessa.” I trace a fingertip up the inside of her thigh, and she clamps her legs tightly together. Her pussy is still slick, leaving a track of wetness on my suit pants.
Her stomach rumbles, and she puts a hand over it like she’s embarrassed.
“You’re hungry.” I lift her off my lap, stand, and go to the door to speak to one of my men outside. When I turn back, I find Dahlia hurriedly trying to get back into her wedding dress.
“The clothing stays off.” I put an edge to my voice to let her know I won’t be defied.
She only tries harder to get the gown back in place to close the zipper.
“Dahlia.”
She freezes and meets my gaze, her lips tight, her chin at a haughty angle.
“Don’t make me say it again.”
Her nostrils flare, and she doesn’t move for a moment, then she opens all her fingers at once and allows the weighty fabric to fall back to the floor.
“For how long?”
She’s smart. Asks the right questions. She definitely has an inner brat, but she knows when to bite her tongue or bide her time. She may have been thrust into the role of insipid socialite, but I suspect she sees through the lies of her existence. She has a grasp on–or wants to see–the bigger picture.
“Until you earn them back with good behavior.”
She puts her hands on her hips. I like the way she stands there, naked except for her garters, hose, and heels, and meets my gaze. I may have stripped her of her clothing, but she’s not grabbing fig leaves to cover up. Her pride is still intact. Her feminine will may be flexible–she chooses her battles–but it’s not weak. She’s still the feisty girl who sought me out at her coming out ball.
Her eyes narrow. “I won’t have sex with you.”
“So you’ve said. But you will obey me. I know you were raised to be a good little wife. Show me you’ll be that for me, and we’ll get along fine.”
Her eyes flash. “I was raised to be a president’s wife,” she spits. “Not a thug’s.”
There it is. The derision I expected from her. The belief that I’m not good enough for her. That I’ll ruin her pedigree.
Well, good. That was my fucking intention.
I arch a brow. “I seem to recall you being quite hungry for a taste of thug the first time we met.”
She flushes.
“So now you have me.” I spread my arms, but there’s no smile on my face. “And believe me, Dahlia, you’re getting what you deserve.”
She goes still, lips parting as she obviously tries to distill the meaning of my words.
As I suspected, she’s not an idiot.
She stalks quickly toward me. “How did I deserve this? What did I do?”
I let her search me with her gaze, then I nod. “That is the mystery you must solve, no?”
Dahlia
I was raised to look pretty, have perfect manners, and be able to hold a conversation with anyone worthy of my attention. I also have a college degree from Smith, but it’s in music appreciation. Nothing has prepared me to manage a situation like this. Just like seven years ago, it’s apparent I’m completely out of my depth with Antonio.
A tap sounds on the door, and Antonio points at me. “Get under the covers, Dahlia.” There’s a sharpness to his tone, like me being seen naked by his staff is akin to an ambush situation.
Interesting. He wants me naked but only for his eyes.
I file that away. I need all the information I can, including all of this man’s quirks and weaknesses if I’m going to get myself out of this situation.
I show my obedience, as he requested, by kicking off my heels and climbing in the bed. I pull the covers up over my breasts. My body is still aflame from his punishment. The spanking was mild–I don’t think he meant to hurt me, it was more to dominate me. Humiliate me.
But my ass is tingling and warm now, and there’s a hot pulsing between my legs that makes me almost sorry I declared I wouldn’t have sex with my groom.
Two men come in–clearly both mafia–carrying a fully set table into the room. They remove covers from the food to reveal two plates, heaped high with a variety of foods. The delicious scent makes my stomach rumble.
A third man–also one of Antonio’s–carrying a bucket with a bottle of champagne on ice.
He speaks to Antonio in Italian, and when my new husband nods, he uncorks the champagne and pours it into two tall flutes.
When the staff–or thugs, or whatever they are–have left the room, Antonio pulls out one of the chairs for me and raises his brows expectantly.