I hold her dress out of the way, parting her lips with the fingers of my free hand. I start with a lick from the tip of my tongue, running it up and down her sex, lightly brushing over her clit as I pass it. She tastes earthy and sweet—she tastes like Esme.
“Oh, Luca.” Her hold tightens around my shoulders. “That feels…incredible.”
I kiss her sex, swirling my tongue against her bud, making her muscles tense, bringing her close to the edge.
But I don’t let her come.
When I know she’s on the brink of climax, I pull away.
She looks down at me, her cheeks flushed, panic in her eyes. “Oh, don’t stop!”
I rise from my knee, holding her dress up.
I bring my lips to hers. “The first time I make you come as my wife, I want to be inside you.” I kiss her, melding the taste of her mouth with the trace of her sex.
Her hands run through my hair as she kisses me back.
One hand lightly holds that dress—I won’t let my wife’s wedding gown be soiled—the other goes to my waist, my fingers working my cock from my tux. I slide my hand under her thighs, lifting her up.
She wraps her strong little thighs around my waist. I manage to pull her away far enough to bring the head of my cock to her opening. I slide in, her pussy wet and ready for me. Resting her dress over the tops of her thighs, I slide both my hands under her, now holding her up higher, pressing deeper inside of her.
She fits perfectly in my arms, our bodies connecting. I hold her high, bringing her back down on my cock with a forceful thrust. She gives a moan. I do it again, pulling her up and away, then crashing back down against me, my cock filling her.
“Luca. The things you do to me…” Her words trail off, her fingernails scratching down the back of my neck as I thrust into her again.
My palms cup her ass, my fingertips digging into her flesh as I bring her up and down again. And again. Harder and faster each time until her head falls back, her eyes close. She tightens around me.
She cries out my name.
Luca. Luca. Luca.
I turn, pressing her back up against the door as I hold her to me tight, the tension rising between my legs. I move and she moves with me, this tangled dance, this urgent merging. Pride and love fill my chest, colliding with the crescendo of my climax, robbing my lungs of breath, my mouth of words. Blanking my mind until I’m nothing but the feeling of being inside her, of coming inside her.
Marking her as mine. I hold her to me, breathing her in. “Esme. My wife.”
Adoration consumes me.
“Oh, Luca.” She kisses me.
I take the piece of silk from the pocket of my tux. Pulling her from me, I clean her up as best I can, not wanting to stain her dress. She stands in a dreamlike daze, letting me, a smile on her face.
I find her panties. Help her step into them and slide them up her legs. Folding the dress back down, I find the material mostly unwrinkled, having not been damaged by our pantry tryst.
I fix my own clothing. Take her hand. And lead her back to the party.
11
Six Months Later
Esme
The kitchen is my happy place.
Everyone here knows where to find me. I spend my mornings at the oversized butcher block topped island. Today, I’m kneading dough, watching the sunrise over the sea from the huge window over the little kitchen table. I stretch and turn the elastic ball, gathering soft white flour as I go. The wheat is grown right here in our fields. I grind the amount I want fresh, every morning.
I’m making rustic bread that I’ll bake in a Dutch oven to get that nice thick crust that falls all over your plate when you bite into it. Later, I’m making gnocchi for dinner.
It’s Luca’s favorite.
There’s a fire burning in the hearth and warm wool-lined slippers on my feet, courtesy of my husband. He knows how cold the tile floors are in the morning. My first morning in the castle, he was surprised to find me yawning and stretching with the sun, like he does.
“You don’t have to get up. You don’t have to work.” He brushed a lock of hair back from my face, his fingertips leaving a tingly trail against my cheek. “Go back to sleep.”
I sat up, eager to start my day. Ready to get my hands on that beautiful, well stocked kitchen of theirs. “This is how early I always get up. I baked every morning at the castle.”
He smiled, leaning down and kissing my lips. “Have it your way.”
And I do.
Nonna sits, drinking tea, watching me bake. She’s good company. Quiet, playing solitaire with the red and white card deck she keeps in the pocket of her robe, offering a funny story about Luca’s childhood every so often.
I’m finding I don’t miss the castle as much as I thought I would.
I turn the dough a quarter turn and give it one final push with the heel of my hands, my gaze rising to the window, to the turquoise sea. I feel the brush of fingertips along the back of my neck, sliding my hair to the side.
The feel of his breath against my skin, his lips against my neck.
He’s my happy place.
A smile eases to my lips and I close my eyes, tilting my head to give him better access. He finds my ear, kissing my lobe. “Good morning, beautiful.”
“Good morning. You were already awake when I got up this morning.”
“Sorry, I missed my morning kiss.” He moves behind me, his chest against my back. He’s so big, so warm, I feel my muscles relaxing as he wraps his arms around my belly.
I slide my hands over his, leaning back into him, inhaling his clean scent. “Where did you go?”
“It’s nothing.” He kisses the top of my head.
I feel the slightest tensing of his muscles. Is something troubling him?
Luca is often a man of few words and over the past six months, I’ve grown to read his body like its own language. Something is worrying him and he doesn’t want to burden me with it.
I’ll let it go and see if it resolves itself soon. If he’s still bothered by dinner, I’ll ask him.
The gnocchi will be a good judge of his mood. If he asks for thirds, he’s happy.
He changes the subject. “Don’t forget your online classes.”
“I never do.”
“Good. I want you to graduate on time.” He tightens his hold on me. “Are you warm enough?”
I give a nod, smiling to myself. “Yes, thank you. This fire you build me every morning keeps it cozy in here.”
“Good.” His hand moves further up my belly and I know if Nonna wasn’t playing cards in the corner, his hand would be creeping toward my breast.
I think of the way he likes to hold me like this, caressing me and kissing the back of my neck, one hand sliding lower and lower till it reaches that place between my thighs…I can’t wait for tonight.
I lean my head back, resting it on his shoulder. “I’m making your favorite for dinner.”
His hold slips from me. He moves to the other side of the island.
His blue eyes seem edgy.
“I won’t be at dinner tonight. I have a matter to attend to.”
What could it be? We’ve dined together every night since I arrived. “What is it?”
He gives his head a shake. “Nothing to concern yourself with.”
“But we always have dinner—”
His gaze rises to meet mine, his crisp words cutting me off. “That’s the end of the matter.”
Warmth blooms in my cheeks. “Fine.”
He grabs an apple from the bowl of fruit we keep on the island. He tosses it in the air, catching it, and takes a bite.
I break the dough into two, watching him as he crosses the room to Nonna.
“Good morning.” He brushes a kiss on the top of her head.
She looks up, a little startled at first, then a warm smile comes to her face. “Luca! I didn’t know you were here.”
“Just came to steal a kiss from my bride and an apple from her bowl. Keep an eye
on my little princess for me.” He turns to me, giving me a wink.
But his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
Something is going on. Something he doesn’t like.
Which means there’s a situation that he feels is out of his control.
Luca is all about control.
I’m still a bit miffed at his curt response. “We’ll be fine. But don’t expect me to save you any gnocchi.”
He crosses the room to me, his straight white teeth sinking into the flesh of the shiny red apple as he moves. There’s something so sensual about everything he does, I find my panties dampening just watching him walk over to me and eating a simple piece of fruit.
Finishing his bite, he slides his hand along my cheek, pulling me to him. He smells of soap and apples. Holding my gaze, his lips move slowly, his voice low so only I can hear him. “Don’t be naughty, little wife. You know I only want to protect you.”
He makes heat rush to my face, between my thighs. I break his gaze. “Fine. I guess I can keep a plate warm for you.”
He leans in, kissing my cheek. “Good girl. Otherwise, you might find yourself over my knee tonight.” He moves his mouth, full on mine, kissing me in that hard, possessive way that makes my knees go to jelly.
He pulls away, smiling at the flush he’s put on my face, the shine I know is in my eyes.
“See you later. Try to stay out of trouble?”
I give a little sniff, going back to my bread. “I always do.”
A chuckle rises from his chest. “Is that so?”
Nonna pipes up from the corner in my defense. “She’s a very good girl, Luca. Now shoo. Get back to work. We’ll be just fine without you for one night.”
He bids us goodbye, leaving with his apple.
Leaving me aching for him.
Nonna rises from her chair, making her way slowly to the island. “Forget the cooking. Tell you what. Me and you are going to order in tonight. To celebrate being the only two queens of the Romano family, we’ll have a pizza Margherita, named after the queen. What do you say?”
She’s so sweet, trying to cheer me up, knowing I’m upset Luca will be gone for dinner. I put my dough in the greased bowls, covering them with cloths to rise. “I say, yes.”
“Leave this for the staff to clean up. Let’s go sit in the sun.”
“Sounds perfect.” I wash my hands, untie my apron, folding it neatly and tucking it on the shelf in the island. I take Nonna’s arm in mine and we walk out to the courtyard.
A few days after I arrived, I requested that the men bring two of the big, cushy armchairs to the courtyard so Nonna can sit and enjoy the outdoors in comfort. We sit, side by side, turning our faces to the sun. Buckles wanders out from under the bench, meowing his grumpy meow and rubbing against our ankles. I reach down to pet him. “Hey there, little man. Want to get some sun with us?”
Ignoring me, he hops up into Nonna’s lap. A moment later he’s purring softly as she strokes his fur.
Spending time with Nonna makes me miss Sophia. I often have a car sent to the castle to retrieve her, and a third chair brought over to the courtyard. We sit, and she and Nonna reminisce about another time, one before I was born. We drink tea, play cards, and Nonna tries to teach me to knit.
But I’m hopeless. I’m trying to make a scarf for Luca for Christmas, but so far, it’s growing wider as I go instead of longer.
Today, I find I’m not missing anyone, too preoccupied with Luca’s abruptness this morning.
Sensing my unusual quietness, Nonna pats my hand. “Don’t worry yourself over men’s troubles. Luca is smart and strong and most importantly, he doesn’t act rashly. Whatever is troubling him, he’ll get it figured out.”
“I know he will.” And I do. But I still worry. I don’t want to upset her, so I offer happier thoughts. “Tell me about Luca when he was younger. The story about how he tried to surf the creek when the rains came.”
I know it’s her favorite, and now it’s one of mine, too.
She shakes her head, laughing. “You don’t want to hear an old lady telling the same story again.”
“But I do.” I love this story. Because it makes me think of those times my serious husband shows his playful side. Same as when he quoted Romeo, climbing my drainpipe, same as when he takes Nonna in his arms, making her waltz across the kitchen with him. “Or tell the one about the time he recorded Lance singing and had the local radio play it when Luca knew Lance would be driving to work.”
She gives a laugh. “You’ve heard all those stories before.” But she starts to tell me the surfing one anyway. About how the waters were rising and he tied a surfboard to a tree, trying to ride the creek like he rode the waves in the ocean.
I’m just beginning to relax, to forget my worries, when I see a shadow out of the corner of my gaze. It looks like a man, dressed in dark clothing, moving behind one of the pillars, near where I (accidentally) set fire to the shed roof.
The figure moves like Rocco.
What’s he doing here?
Last I heard, he’d taken off, going out of town to do some work for the family, most likely to get away from me.
He and Sergio weren’t happy with my moving here, but Luca’s ensured that they didn’t make it known to me. Recently, I’ve won Sergio over with my pizzelles. I substitute vanilla for the anise extract and he seems to like them, eating the delicate cookie by the dozen. He, like Lance, has told me he’s grateful to me; that since my arrival, Nonna’s happier, eating more, her lucid days coming more frequently.
Rocco, however, turned down every treat I offered before he left.
If he is back, I’ll keep working on him, finding out what he likes to eat. Everyone has a breaking point.
The shadow moves again. I peek at Nonna, realizing she’s gone silent. She’s nodded off in her chair, her head lolling against her shoulder, sleeping just as hard as Buckles. I tuck her shawl tighter around her shoulders; she makes a muffled noise of appreciation, but doesn’t wake. Buckles opens one eye, giving me a grouchy ‘me-ooow,’ before settling back down.
I head across the courtyard to investigate. “Rocco? Is that you?”
But when I peer behind the column, there’s no one there.
My mind must be playing tricks on me. With Luca seeming out of sorts, I guess I’m on edge.
I sit back down beside Nonna, picking up my knitting and working on the hideous, lopsided scarf. It’s made of pear green yarn, a color I chose to enhance those gorgeous blue eyes of his.
I laugh to myself as I sit here, knitting in the sun like a grandmother.
I’ve grown so much in such a short amount of time, naturally sliding into the role of the woman of the house. John, my father-in-law, loves my cooking, insisting with every bite I don’t have to lift a finger if I don’t want to.
But in his next breath, he’s telling me I make the best gravy—thick red sauce for pasta—he’s ever had.
Which, to an Italian woman is one of the highest compliments you can give.
I’ve brightened up the place, bringing feminine touches back to the house that must have been here when Luca’s mother was still alive. Every Monday morning, I have fresh flowers delivered. I arrange the bouquets in cut glass vases, placing them around the home. I cook dinner every night, insisting everyone who’s home partake.
They never take much convincing.
Every Sunday afternoon, my family comes for Sunday dinner. Felicity brings a salad, Sophia one of her desserts that I miss so much. Vincent brings bourbon for him and John.
After we eat, I’ll play piano and Lance will perch himself against the piano and sing. We like to perform old songs, ones Nonna and Sophia sing along to. I like to glance up at Luca’s face while I’m playing. I love the way he looks at me.
Like I’m someone precious.
The Russos and Romanos are becoming one big, peaceful family. It’s amazing how food can bring people together, a little secret I learned from watching Sophia while I was growing up.
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We’re safe. Happy.
So why every time a cloud passes over the sun, casting a shadow on the stone ground of the courtyard, do the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, wondering if that was Rocco I saw earlier?
I push the silly thought away, knowing once Luca gets home from work and takes me in his arms, all will be well.
But over the following days, he becomes more and more preoccupied with work, missing meals. Tossing and turning in the bed at night.
I reach for him. He kisses me, takes me in his arms. And tells me to go back to sleep.
I’m used to having all his attention when he’s home, the two of us talking, kissing.
Spending the nights with our bodies tangled as one.
I want to do something to get his attention back. I try baking his weakness, chocolate chip cannolis, but after thanking me profusely, he takes only one bite, leaving it on the plate, forgotten on the counter. His gaze is so often somewhere else, it pains me.
But I’m not one to give up.
I have other ways of getting my husband’s attentions.
12
Luca
Now that the Russo and Romano families are joined, my responsibilities have doubled. I no longer have free time to work a few hours in the field alongside our men.
I’ve always taken care of our family’s imports and exports, both legal and not so much so. We ship wheat and apples locally.
Other goods, ones in discreet packaging, have a further reach.
For the past few months, I’ve headed our security detail, leading the men who are charged with protecting our walls. Since our union with Vincent, I’m now helping to run the import of arms from the Bachman family’s storehouse in Greece, to the Russo’s storage below their castle.
Now that Esme and I are married, Vincent has given me rights over half of his supply.
He doesn’t yet trust the rest of my family, so it’s only me he allows me on his property.
There’s a heavy sense of respect and responsibility between us, born from the common, precious thread we share.
Dark Throne: A Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance (Russo Royals) Page 12