My mouth parted on its own. And when he delved inside, taking that as my surrender, touching his tongue to mine, all I tasted was an addictive male. All I smelled was Nikolai. All I felt was my husband.
And now I was irrevocably his.
Chapter
Twelve
Amara
“You’re going to get drunk, passerotta.” My mother‘s voice was hushed, but her tone was tight, as if she were angry that I was drinking my third glass of champagne.
At my own wedding.
And because I was already feeling a buzz, I didn’t care to placate her and stop.
The entire day was a blur and the only thing that was helping my nerves was the alcohol. All I could keep thinking about was what was going to happen tonight when the reception was over and Nikolai took me upstairs to our honeymoon suite.
Just the thought had me reaching for the stem of my champagne glass and bringing the flute to my mouth, finishing it off before snagging another one by a passing waiter.
I could feel my mother‘s scowl, heard her click her tongue disapprovingly at me, but I ignored her. but I didn’t look at her. My face felt hot, the alcohol rushing through me but I felt good. I felt like all the stress of the last month was fading. Thankfully.
I let my gaze travel over the expansive ballroom, the massive crystal chandelier that hung in the center of the room casting golden shards of crystalline light across everything and making it seem like it was a fairytale instead of my nightmare.
There were circular tables in perfect intervals around the large square swatch of the polished, wooden dance floor. The bar lined one entire wall, white up lights illuminating the mirrored wall behind it. And the waitstaff made sure no one ever had an empty glass.
My gaze went to Tommaso and Edoardo, watching as they stood by one of the entrances to the balcony, their posture stiff, their expressions firm. And although they wore tuxedos, blended in with the guests, I knew they probably had a handful of weapons on them.
I kept scanning the bar and as if I were being pulled one way, my gaze landed on my husband. My. Husband.
Nikolai stood with his brother Dmitry, a handful of men that had been their “guests” standing close to them as well. But I knew those men weren’t here in a formal way. They were soldiers, just like half the men that had been at the wedding.
As if he heard my thoughts, or felt my gaze, Nikolai looked at me and our gazes locked. My body’s reaction to him was instantaneous. Pulse racing, belly feeling like butterflies moved within it, hands starting to shake.
And when his grin was slow to move across his face, when he winked at me and silently promised all the dark and devilish things he’d do to me tonight, my body reacted then too.
I felt my inner muscles clench, tingle. I grew warm between my thighs… wet.
Oh God.
I reached for my nearly filled champagne flute and took a hard pull from it.
Part of me wanted to keep looking at him, especially as I watched his smile grow, as if he knew how off-balance he made me, how nervous I was. How he affects me. But I forced myself to look away and scan the room again, trying in vain to focus on something else.
I couldn’t help but think about what Francesca had told me at the dress fitting. I couldn’t help but feel my worry that what she said was the truth, that Nikolai was a beast and would do all kinds of debasing, degrading things to me all for his pleasure.
My gaze went back to Nikolai. He still watched me, this hungry look in his eyes.
“It’s time.” A deep voice said behind me and I looked over my shoulder to see my father standing there, his posture stiff as he all but glared down at me, his hand held out.
I breathed out slowly and stood, gathering the skirting of my dress and slipping my palms in his.
Tradition was important in my family, in any good Italian one where custom and authenticity was held to the highest standard.
And so my father led me to the dance floor, just as an old Sicilian wedding song started playing. My father pulled me in close to dance, a pasted-on smile across his face solely for appearances.
He was silent for several long seconds before he broke the ice with his hard pitch-ax of a demeanor. “You’ll be good for your new husband, won’t you.” It wasn’t phrased like a question. It was a demand.
I nodded.