by J, Bella
Saint was sitting at the dining table scrolling through his phone when I got on deck. The sight of white oak blasted memories of last night through my mind, causing me to clench my thighs.
Saint looked up, his brows slanted and forehead creased. “Sleep well?”
“As well as expected. You?”
He continued scrolling and typing on his phone. “Like a baby.”
I frowned at him, knowing all too well what he was insinuating. It made me think of what it was like feeling his warm cum drip down my thigh.
“Hungry?” He gestured to the seat next to him, and I sat down, pretending to browse all the breakfast options laid out in a delicious spread on the table.
“Starved,” I muttered and plated two blueberry pancakes with a few slices of fruit. Not once did I glance his way, but I felt his stare. It caressed the side of my neck, the exposed flesh tingling under his gaze.
“I like your hair up.”
I stilled and forgot to chew on the strawberry I just popped in my mouth.
“You should wear it that way more often.”
I moved my jaw and managed to swallow the fruit. “I will make a note of that.”
He snorted as if amused by my reply, and from the corner of my eye, I saw him staring at me as he rubbed his fingers across his chin.
I shifted in my seat. “So, I was thinking about our conversation the other day.”
“Which one?”
“The conversation about you wanting my ten percent shares.” I braved a glance his way. “The sum doesn’t add up.”
He cleared his throat and picked up his cup of coffee. “What sum?”
“Well, you said you owned thirty-nine percent shares, and my brother forty-six.”
“He doesn’t own it yet,” Saint said with a snide tone.
“If the firstborn Torres gets ten percent, there’s still five unaccounted for. Who owns the remaining five percent?”
“Investors,” he answered simply. “A few no-name businessmen who are happy to receive the little interest they get each month.”
With narrowed eyes, I watched as he sliced through the Eggs Benedict on his plate. Yesterday, he was cleanly shaven, and already this morning there was a faint shadow that painted his jaw.
I took a bite of the pancake, the subtle taste of buttermilk mixed with the tang of blueberries blended perfectly together. It made me realize how hungry I really was. Saint and I continued breakfast in silence, yet the atmosphere between us was palpable. The entire time, I was hyperaware of his every move, every breath, every bite of food he placed in his mouth. Every little thing he did reminded me of last night, how his hand felt on my heated skin. How my body responded to his touch mixed with the lethal sound of his filthy words. The memories made my core tighten and my flesh hungry for more of his touch. It was insane and unsettling, to say the least, that my captor managed to elicit such sordid desires in me.
His every glance in my direction had my skin tingling, and I kept crossing and uncrossing my legs under the table. It was unnerving the way he affected me simply by being close, simply by breathing.
The roar of engines echoed from the distance, followed by the sound of splashing water breaking against a hard surface.
Saint placed his napkin on the table and stood, the chair screeching across the wooden deck.
“We have company,” he stated and walked off.
I got up and followed him to the flybridge just as a speedboat pulled up, an older man and young woman boarding the Empress.
“Mr. Saint.” The older man extended a hand, and Saint obliged.
“Morone,” he greeted before turning his attention to the tall blonde whose dress might be considered more a longer sized shirt than a summer dress. “Anete.”
“Saint.” One could have spotted her blushing cheeks from a mile away, and she leaned in to give him a peck on the cheek, an act I didn’t like. At all.
“I didn’t expect you to accompany your father here today,” Saint said with a slight hint of surprise.
Her smile was too wide and her batting eyelashes too long. “It’s such a beautiful day, I simply had to get out of the house.” Her thick Italian accent was smeared with a sensual pitch as she stressed the consonants in every word. I wondered if she dressed to match her overly sexy accent, or if she spoke in a way to match her revealing wardrobe.
“And who is this?” Anete, the shirt-wearing goddess, turned her attention to me.
My lips parted with an answer, but Saint took my hand. “This is Milana. My wife.”
If shocked and dumbfounded had babies, it would look like Anete’s face as she gaped first at me and then at Saint. “Your wife?”
Saint tightened his grip on my hand, forcing me to step closer to his side. “Yes.”
“Well, I didn’t…” She flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder. “I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”
Saint shrugged. “It’s just one of those things that kind of happened.”
Cherry red lips pursed, and honey-colored eyes glared. She went from a pretty, polite princess to a pretty, peeved person.
I smiled, secretly bathing in her blatant disappointment in my existence. “It’s nice to meet you, Anete.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Likewise.”
The older man stepped up. “Mario Marone. I’m Mr. Saint’s lawyer. I suppose this makes you Mrs. Saint? Mrs. Russo?” He seemed slightly confused and looked at Saint for confirmation, but I reached out and took his hand.
“Just call me Milana.”
“Of course,” he responded politely before turning to Saint. “I suppose this is why you asked me to come out here today.”
Saint nodded. “I have documentation I need you to take care of for me.”
“Sure. I assume a prenuptial agreement is among them.”
Saint let go of my hand and summoned Mario with a single nod. “Let’s discuss this in private, shall we?”
Mario nodded, and Saint looked my way, his eyes almost the same color as the ocean. He glanced at Anete with what seemed like a hidden warning. It was brief, but I caught it—an obvious sign there was something familiar between them, especially in the way Anete batted her lashes and plastered on a fake smile for him. It reminded me of the stewardess he fired. The one he admitted so blatantly to have fucked.
The men walked off, leaving Anete and me in an excruciatingly uncomfortable bubble.
“So,” she clutched the top of her large, white sunhat and slipped on her black designer sunglasses that oddly reminded me of an insect, “how long have you known Saint?”
“One would say I’ve known him my entire life.” It wasn’t too far a stretch from the truth since I was practically born to marry him.
“Odd,” she replied dryly. “I’ve known Saint for years, and he never once mentioned a Milana.”
I couldn’t help but smirk. “Segreto.”
She cocked a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Secret. I guess I was one of his many secrets.”
“Uh huh.” Her pale green eyes studied me from top to bottom. “Nope, I don’t see it.” She pranced around me. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d say it’s probably time for a mimosa. Or six.”
Heels clicked across the deck, and I stared at her back, gawking and confused as to what the fuck she just meant with, “Nope, I don’t see it.”
What the hell was that?
Ugh, I’d only known her for ten seconds, and already I could stereotype and place her in the little jar along with all the other world class bitches I’d met in my life. The ones with the dollar-sign lips, fake tits, and payphone pussies. You can’t use it unless you put a coin in it.
While Anete took a seat, the guy behind the bar glanced from her to the clock against the wall, and I chose to spend my time out on the deck in the sun, instead of getting drunk at ten in the morning.
Vitamin D soaked through my pores as my skin bathed in the summer heat. Saint and Mario had been lock
ed below deck for hours, and a tiny part of me wanted to be a damn fly on the wall. But then there was a bigger part of me who just couldn’t give a fuck.
“Enjoying some healthy sun, I see.”
I opened my eyes and squinted as Elena hovered over me. “Yeah. Saint is off doing whatever he does with his lawyer, and Miss I-use-a-shirt-for-a-dress is busy getting drunk by the bar.”
“Ah.” Elena sat down on the recliner next to mine. “So, you met Anete.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s his lawyer’s daughter.”
I lifted a brow. “I mean to him. Who is she to Saint?”
Elena lifted a shoulder. “Who’s to say she is anyone to him?”
“Oh, come on. I might not be clued in with whatever the hell goes on around here, but I’d have to be blind to not see how she lusts after him. And take note, all I needed was ten seconds in her presence to figure that out.”
“Anete is what we call an Italian socialite. Around here, she’s just famous for being famous.”
“So, she’s basically the Italian version of a Kardashian?”
Elena laughed. “Something like that, yes.”
“Has something ever happened between them?” Not like I cared.
“Probably.” She didn’t even try to play it down. “Marcello is a warm-blooded man. Unless a woman catches his heart, a beautiful woman will always catch his eye.”
“Oh, awesome. Not.” I scoffed. Not comfortable with the topic at hand, I glanced around at the open ocean, a beautiful tropical shade of green and blue. It seemed peaceful, yet so many dangers lurked below it. It reminded me of Saint’s eyes—a warning never to trust the illusion of calm. High peaks of rock were scattered in the distance, a silhouette of land teasing on the horizon.
“Where are we, anyway?”
Elena took a deep, appreciative breath of fresh ocean air. “We are close to Marina Piccola.”
“Marina what?”
“Piccola. It lies directly opposite Capri’s giant sea stacks.”
“Man. It’s just my luck. I’ve never been out of New York City, and now that I finally am halfway across the world, I can’t experience any of it.”
She shot me a warm smile. “Be patient. There’s still plenty of time.”
“Plenty of time for what?”
But she had already left, walking back inside. I sighed and sagged into the recliner. At least I could enjoy the sun and view—a little silver lining around this dark cloud I was stuck in.
Laughter bubbled from behind me, and I turned, only to see Anete leaning into Saint, smiling, rubbing his arm with one hand while clutching a mimosa in the other. Incredible. A few hours ago, he introduced her to his wife, yet there she was, flirting openly with him as if the mimosas just magically made the fact that he was married disappear.
I crossed my arms and huffed. Why did it bother me so much? We were only married on a piece of paper, and nothing more. I didn’t even want to be married to him, yet here I was, pouting over a tart who couldn’t keep her hands to herself.
You are Milana Katarina Russo. I heard his voice as if he were standing right beside me. That was who I was. That was the person I needed to act like. Would a Russo wife tolerate a woman like Anete so blatantly flirting and throwing herself at Saint? I thought not.
I puffed my ponytail with my fingers and got up, raising my chin. Teaching Anete a lesson was the mission, but while I sauntered across the deck, Saint was the target. I never took my gaze off him and pretended as if Anete wasn’t even there as I swayed my hips. She wasn’t the only one here with natural Italian curves.
Saint looked my way as the click of my heels came closer, his gaze locked on mine. I forced myself to think about last night, to think about what it felt like to have his hands on my body, his touch on my skin. I thought about his fingers caressing and exploring between my legs, his guttural groans as he shot ribbons of cum onto my silk panties. Thinking about it gave me courage. It gave me the fortitude I needed to take every step with sheer confidence and sensual poise.
A gentle breeze ruffled through the flare of my dress, its warm fingers of summer heat caressing my thighs.
Mario was the first one to react when I joined them. “Milana, enjoying the Italian sun?”
“Very much.” I shot him a charming grin then turned all my attention to the man in the soft blue dress shirt and Ralph Lauren chino shorts. The man who, as of last night, was now lawfully my husband.
I wrapped my fingers around his elbow, and with the other hand I reached up and touched his cheek, turning his face down to mine as I pushed myself up on my toes, and locked my lips onto his. I wasn’t being subtle, or shy. I was being possessive, seductive, the Russo wife who kissed her husband with nothing but vehement passion.
Saint didn’t stop me. He didn’t pull away. In fact, his arm snaked around my waist and fingers bit into my hip as he hardened the kiss. Our tongues danced and lapped while our lips devoured. His mouth tasted like oaky vanilla and caramel—the strong notes of bourbon, and I relished the zest on my tongue. I was no longer trying to prove a point or trying to stake my claim. I was merely surrendering to the flutter of butterfly wings in my stomach, and willing the craving to never ever stop. It wasn’t like our kiss last night. Last night, it was gentle, tender, a lovers’ waltz. But now, it was different. It was a tangled web of lips and tongues ravaging, tasting, not caring if chaos followed.
Mario cleared his throat in the background, severing the moment, and I cursed the day he was born.
I lowered myself back on my heels and touched my throbbing lips.
Saint’s fingers dug even deeper into my hip, and I flinched. “I apologize for my wife’s…passionate display. Being newlyweds seems to have made our desire for each other,” he looked down at me with blazing eyes, “uncontrollable.”
I swallowed hard. To them, it probably looked like a husband staring down lovingly at his wife with nothing but passion. To me, from where I stood, it was the scalding glower of a man who was born to dominate…and punish.
“You must excuse us,” Saint said politely, not letting go of my waist. “We have our honeymoon to get back to.”
“Of course.” Mario nodded. “I’ll process all the necessary documentation as discussed and confirm via email when everything has been finalized.”
“Thank you, Mario.” Saint glanced at Anete. “Enjoy the rest of this beautiful day.”
If it wasn’t for the heavy weight of concrete currently settling in my chest, I might have enjoyed the sullen look on Anete’s face. It kind of reminded me of what a dog’s face looked like when you teased him with a piece of meat and then ate it yourself. I would have enjoyed the look on her face more if it wasn’t for Saint’s cruel hand and icy fingers that bit into my hip.
My heart pounded like a jackhammer against my ribs, and I was sure it would crack through the bone at any moment.
We watched Mario and Anete leave on the speedboat, the sound of the engines disappearing into the distance. It happened so fast, I forgot to take a breath as Saint twisted his wrist, twirled me around, and pinned my arm behind me. I gasped for air when his other hand reached for my neck, fingers digging into my throat as he pulled me back against his chest.
“What the fuck was that?” His cold voice grated down my spine.
“What do you mean?” I cringed against his grueling hold around my neck and wrist.
He jerked my arm and pulled it farther up my back. “That little inappropriate display of yours in front of our guests.”
“You wanted me to act the part of your wife. That’s what I did.”
“Bullshit,” he bit out, and I could hear his jaw tick. “You think you can piss on me? Mark me like you fucking own me?”
“That’s not—”
Abruptly, he let go of me, and grabbed me by my hair, his fist tangled between the curls as he tugged hard. My scalp burned, and I stumbled over my own feet as he dragged me across the deck and down the stairs. “I’ll show y
ou the real meaning of marking someone.”
“Saint, you’re hurting me.”
“Oh, I haven’t even begun to hurt you.”
I grabbed at his wrist, desperate for him to let me go. But his grip tightened, his hand firm and unyielding as he pulled me by my hair. The confidence I had earlier was gone, my insides filled with nothing but concrete.
Saint let go of my hair and shoved me into a room before he slammed the door closed behind him. I stumbled but gathered my footing just in time to keep myself from falling on my ass. “What is your problem? I was doing what you want me to do by acting my part.”
“No, you were acting like a jealous bitch trying to mark her fucking territory.” The hard lines on his face were feral, cruel, as if he wanted to tear me in half. Clenching his jaw, he stalked toward me. “I do not belong to you. You belong to me. Do you understand the difference?”
I scraped together all the courage I had and refused to show signs that he intimidated me even though my heart was lodged in my throat.
With my chin raised, I tried my best to stand as tall as I could against him. “There shouldn’t be a difference. You want me to put up the perfect act as your wife, then you need to be the perfect husband. It’s only fair.”
“Fuck fair. No one said our little arrangement will be fair.”
“I told you before, I will not be humiliated by your sexual antics. And definitely not by some blonde bimbo who tried to dig her claws into a man who just introduced her to his goddamn wife.”
His face flashed with anger, his ire aimed at me. I could practically hear the blood boil in his veins where mine was the exact opposite—frozen beneath chilled skin.
It took every ounce of courage I had to not inch away when he stepped right up to me—tall frame and broad shoulders threatening to smother the last bit of air from my lungs.
I kept my eyes etched on his, his gaze hot and hungry, like a predator ready to strike. Primal. Powerful. The intensity that radiated off him trapped me, and I couldn’t move. With every exhale, the knotted terror in my stomach twisted tighter, but it was no longer fear. No longer panic. It was something dark and erotic, tempting as if lightning had struck the air and electric currents crashed between us. My tongue became useless, my mind incapable of putting a single sentence together. I had never been so overwhelmed with someone’s presence, but Saint—he floored me, even when he made no secret of his wicked intensions. He broke down all my defenses, luring me with a seductive darkness. It was dangerous how easily he affected me, as if he had a supernatural hold on me, some magical spell that handed him all control.