The Marriage He Must Keep

by Dani Collins

  He’d been the one to burn on contact. She’d been so responsive, moaning against his mouth and gasping as he circled her nipple with his thumb. When he’d pressed her to the bed and lightly explored her inner thighs, driving them both crazy with anticipation before he’d finally found what they were waiting for, she’d been wetly aroused, so slick and heated he nearly lost it just from exploring her.

  “Do you do this to yourself? Show me what you like,” he’d said, petting, enjoying the way she shivered and tensed and made strangled noises in her throat.

  “I’m not going to tell you that,” she’d choked, hand trembling over his as she tried to decide between the pleasure he was giving her and the bashfulness that was receding behind desire.

  “You do,” he’d teased, then commanded, “Let me make it happen for you,” and had tongued her nipple, sucking as he fondled her into climaxing with her hands in his hair and soft cries escaping her lips.

  He had wanted to thrust into her then, so close to losing control he’d been shaking, but he’d gone down, arousing her all over again, carefully penetrating with his fingers to prepare her and making her arch up to his mouth as she gave up another orgasm.

  Then, then he had covered her, gritting out, “I’ll be fast. It will only hurt for a minute.” He’d had nothing left for discipline and for the first time in his life he wasn’t using a condom. But as he’d thrust into her, she had tensed in the wrong way, gasping an anxious, “Wait.”

  It had nearly killed him, but he’d kept himself still, eyes closed, breath held, racked in a state of exquisite torture. He’d been so aroused he had been one pulsing nerve that felt and smelled and heard. He had been completely in the moment, his entire world reduced to her silken clasp around him, her scent, her shaken breaths as she relaxed by slow degrees.

  Finally, her soft lips had sought his, whispering a damp acquiescence against his mouth.

  As he’d begun to move, he’d known what they were doing wasn’t sex. It had been everything from the basest type of mating to the highest art form. He had promised to be fast, but he had wanted it to last his lifetime. His need to pour into her had been so acute he couldn’t breathe. One more stroke, just one more then—

  “Oh. I think I’m— Keep going. Don’t stop. Please. Oh, oh.”

  Music and torment. He had guided her thigh to his waist and pushed a hand under her hip to angle her so he could drive deeper, kissing her hard as she dug her nails into his shoulders and sobbed with pleasure into his mouth. Then she had shuddered and rippled and had come again, pulling him with her so they were both tumbling through the same waves of mindless pleasure, clinging to each other while they drowned in ecstasy.

  Alessandro came back to the quiet formality of his office in his mother’s house and the patter of afternoon rain outside. He set a hand on the window, then his forehead, letting the cold of the pane penetrate, trying to take his hot blood down a few degrees.

  He and Octavia were so damned attuned when they were having sex. It had only grown better from that first time and he was hard as a diamond just thinking about it. He wanted to cross the hall and slide into the bed where she was napping, and remind her exactly how well matched they were.

  But seduction was off his playlist.

  Wait. Was it? He ran a hand down his face, trying to pull himself together, thinking he didn’t have to make love to her, just let her know he wanted to. Surely that would begin to reassure her?

  A distant squawk told him his wife might not be awake, but his son was. He took custody of Lorenzo from the nanny, spending his first hour alone with the boy, fully taking in that he was a father now. That brought up memories of his own father and, if he had been looking for something to cool his ardor and shake him back to his priorities, there it was. He was glad of the privacy of his office as he dealt with the wrench of emotion.

  Lorenzo was such an innocent. So perfectly unmarred by life. Alessandro enclosed the tiny boy in a protective cage against his chest, thinking how cavalier he’d been in producing this new life only so Lorenzo could struggle to hang on to it. This world was a harsh place. When he’d been making love to his wife, he hadn’t taken in that he was increasing a thousandfold the level of responsibility he had carried since he was twelve years old. But now he had this small boy to guide and guard into manhood. Did Octavia really believe he would allow his child to grow up anywhere but under his own nose?

  The magnitude of how completely his life had changed hit him. His cousin, the man he’d relied on, was gone. His wife wanted to leave him. He’d been given a son.

  His entire path forward had to be reassessed, but he wouldn’t move down it alone. Octavia was coming with him. That much he knew.

  * * *

  Octavia woke and went directly to her son, but he wasn’t in his nursery. Ysabelle might have him downstairs, she supposed, but the door to the master suite was closed and...

  She glanced at the door at the end of the hall. It was the office Alessandro used when he was here. He’d been in Paris all week, despite his assurance days ago that he was here now. The door to his office was almost always closed whether he was in there or not, but a sixth sense had her going to it and knocking.

  “Alessandro?” She poked her head in.

  He stood at his desk and looked up from reading something on his laptop screen, his expression of concentration clearing to distracted welcome. He was impeccable if casual with his jacket and tie gone, two buttons open and a baby in his crooked arm.

  “You’re up.”

  “You’re home.”

  Apparently they were stating the obvious.

  She suddenly realized her shirt collar was turned under, her hair loose and uncombed and her eyes still puffy with sleep. “I didn’t know where he was. Is he hungry?”

  “He hasn’t said so,” he said dryly, glancing at the blinking infant before inviting her in with a wave. He met her halfway into the room and let her take the baby. With a light touch against the side of her head, he held her for a brief but firm kiss, then moved past her to close the door. “How are you feeling?” he asked as he turned back to her.

  “Good,” she murmured, disconcerted by the faint taste of coffee now on her lips. “You’re starting him rather early for taking charge, aren’t you?”

  “One more reason to raise him in Naples,” he commented with quiet significance.

  She looked away, but her gaze snagged on the oil painting by his aunt that hung behind his desk. It was the view from the veranda of the Castello di Ferrante onto the hills of the vineyard surrounding the ancestral estate.

  “It’s his heritage,” Alessandro added, noting where she was looking.

  As he said it, she heard the truth of it. She squirmed inwardly, but realized he had her. No matter what she thought best for herself, she couldn’t deny Lorenzo his birthright. Did Alessandro feel guilty at all using their son to manipulate her? If he did, there was not one iota of remorse in his expression.

  “My grandfather used to tell me that being CEO of the family company is a caretaker’s position. I thought I understood what he meant, but I didn’t. Not until I brought my son in here today. I’m not just supporting the family, but building his future. You won’t deny it to him, will you?”

  Octavia let her gaze flicker around the room. The place was in disarray. Alessandro was obviously still trying to bring order after firing Primo. He’d left file cabinet drawers open and papers spilled onto every surface. An assortment of flash drives and backup tapes littered a side table and an old laptop had been revived on the coffee table. The desk was peppered with his own laptop and tablet and phone. One of Lorenzo’s new stuffed bears sat crookedly in the big black executive chair like a tiny drunken CEO.

  She didn’t take in the mess so much as search for escape routes, glancing to the window like a bird seeking freedom. But the window
was closed.

  “No,” she admitted in a small mumble of defeat. “Congratulations on finding my Achilles’ heel.” She glanced back at him, expecting triumph.

  He was very somber. “My mother is going to sit with him tonight, so you and I can go out for dinner.”

  “Oh. I—” She hadn’t expected that. After weeks of feeling too unwieldy to leave the house, then stuck in the hospital and finally recovering here, she was feeling very cooped up. The little bird in her gave a fresh flutter of its wings, but Ysabelle obviously didn’t see the tension between her son and daughter-in-law. “That’s a nice offer, but I’ll tell her it’s not necessary.”

  “I asked her to.”

  “Why?” she blurted.

  “Because we’ve been apart too long. It’s time to be a husband and wife again.”

  This was exactly what she was afraid of. The moment she conceded one point to him, he assumed she was ready to resume their marriage.

  Was she?

  She was still trying to decide a few hours later, as she applied makeup for the first time in forever. She was still attracted to her husband, of course she was. Physically, he was so perfect it was a superpower. But he was extra powerful in other ways, too, which made her feel weak.

  She sighed, standing back to examine the top and skirt she’d rescued from her early maternity wear. The black skirt had a kerchief hem and an elastic panel that didn’t put too much pressure on her abdomen. Her legs looked okay, especially once she stepped into a pair of heels. The overlong, eggplant-colored top was, well, she supposed the scoop neckline drew the eye to her cleavage, rather than the thick waistline she’d tried to define with a narrow gold belt. She looked voluptuous and very Italian, especially with her pregnancy hair, thick and wavy and longer than she’d ever worn it. With a quick twist, she wound a pale yellow-and-orange scarf around her neck, adding a hint of pizzazz.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, expression softening into admiring lines as he watched her come down the stairs to meet him in the foyer. He drew her close to press a kiss to her temple and her crumpled ego ate it up.

  She tucked a mumbled, “Grazie,” into his shoulder. His touch took her tension into a whole new stratosphere, reminding her how much she enjoyed his caresses. At one point she’d been sure he enjoyed their lovemaking, too, but she wasn’t so sure anymore.

  She wasn’t sure about anything, least of all why had she agreed to dinner.

  As if he knew she was wavering, he kissed his mother, thanked her for babysitting and escorted Octavia out to the waiting car. Minutes later they were at the Mayfair restaurant she liked. It was converted from an eighteenth-century town house and she only visited for afternoon tea when she was on her own, but Alessandro had brought her here on the tail end of their honeymoon and she absolutely loved it. They always had excellent music, new art and the atmosphere was very trendy and creative, the food beyond exceptional.

  He’d booked them a private table in the library and held her chair himself. She let him order, too busy looking at the sketches on the walls to read the menu herself. When the sommelier came, she murmured, “I’m not sure if I should have wine if I’m nursing.”

  “Water it down,” Alessandro suggested, nearly making the sommelier drop the bottle that likely cost four figures.

  “He’s joking,” Octavia assured the man, biting back a smile as she admonished Alessandro with a look, but she’d just glimpsed the playboy from her honeymoon and wanted to laugh with sheer and hopeful joy. “I’ll have a very short glass and please don’t be offended if I don’t finish it.”

  When the man left, she told Alessandro, “That was mean,” then clinked glasses with him. “Salud.”

  He lifted a negligent brow, settling back to regard her, fingers tracing the base of his glass where he set it on the table.

  She sipped again. The wine was excellent. She’d have to be careful, nervous as she was. That would go down too easily if she let it.

  “Where are your rings?” Alessandro asked, stilling. He looked from her hand to her eyes, accusation sharp in his gaze.

  “I took them off weeks ago because my hands were swelling. I can’t get them back on yet.” She tucked her hands into her lap.

  “It’s not symbolic then?” he asked, lifting his glass, but regarding her over the rim without tasting.

  She parted her lips, but found too many words coming into her mouth, all jumbled and hard to speak. Meeting his gaze grew difficult and she dropped her attention to the middle of the table.

  The silence grew heavy and loaded. “You were happy in our marriage, Octavia. You can be happy again.”

  Because he decreed it?

  “It wasn’t a marriage, Alessandro. It was an affair.” Her voice thinned and her cheeks burned. It was hard to face the truth. Hard to speak it. “You took three weeks off work and I had a lover for the first time in my life. We did nothing but eat, swim and make love. Of course I was happy. But the minute we returned to reality, you set me aside.”

  The injury of that slow realization, as their sense of closeness was eroded daily by neglect, made her voice unsteady. “I wasn’t sharing your life. I was the sex toy you took to bed at night.”

  His head went back. “That’s insulting to both of us.”

  “You didn’t have any use for me once we were told I couldn’t have sex.” She looked down at her hands knotting in her lap, peeled three fingers into a salute that she held up. “Three duty visits,” she reminded him.

  He looked away. His grip on the stem of his glass looked as if it would snap the delicate strand.

  “Is it any wonder I believed Primo when he said you were cheating?” she added.

  “I didn’t even think of other women while we were apart. I only want you,” he said in a tone that fell somewhere between frustration and fury.

  Yet, when he brought his attention back to her, his eyes glittered with banked lust. He looked at her like he had on their honeymoon. As if he’d battled his way past the guards and was opening the chest of booty.

  Her heart stuttered in her chest. Her nerves tingled and the pit of her belly burned as though she’d swallowed half a bottle of gin. She held her breath, trying to withstand the huge rush of sexual excitement that suffused her.

  “It’s not like this for everyone, you know,” he said. They were speaking Italian, were alone in the big room, but she blushed as he added, “You were a virgin, so you may not realize that, but we have something not everyone does, cara.”

  “The sex doesn’t matter,” she said, the color in her cheeks increasing under his incredulous stare. “It’s not enough,” she clarified, lifting a fatalistic hand, stammering out, “There has to be something else and obviously there isn’t because nothing about me drew you here while I was pregnant. Not even your unborn son.”

  The remembered loneliness crept up to sting the backs of her eyes, making it hard for her to continue.

  “How are we supposed to have any sort of marriage if you weren’t interested in something as basic as friendship? If all you want from me is my body?” It absolutely crushed her to say it, but she had to face it. “I’m nothing to you. I can’t be nothing, Alessandro.”

  “I regret not coming,” he said, catching at her hand before she could tuck it back into her lap. His grip urged her to look at him. His dark brows formed a pained line over a gaze that reflected agony. “I will regret not being here for the rest of our lives because it might have prevented some of this...stage play we’re barely surviving. You and I would not be so far apart right now if I’d used that time to get to know you the way I should have.

  “What can I say?” he continued, massaging her hands as though he wanted to work his words into her skin. “I’m arrogant. I believed we had the rest of our lives. Perhaps there was even some immaturity on my part, not quite ready to accept the y
oke of marriage. My life has been one of autonomy. I wanted to be married, not domesticated. I’m not proud of that attitude, but I’m man enough to admit that’s where my head was at.”

  “And now you’re ready to be domestic?” she chided, letting her hand stay in his because she craved his touch. Even after all this time, all her anger and disappointment and reservations, she wanted to hold still for his touch.

  “Now, like many people who only realize the true value of something when they almost lose it, I am ready to commit wholeheartedly to our marriage,” he said in a tone that made it a vow.

  Hope pulsed in her arteries. Everything about him weakened her: the control and confidence his posture projected, the handsomeness of his godlike features with that glint of determination in his eyes.

  “But I can’t say the same,” she admitted, wavering slightly as he flinched and sent her a fierce look. “I went into this marriage so anxious for it to be perfect, so certain it would be better than my parents’, I never disagreed with any of your decisions. You made all of them. I can’t be that person you married. I won’t.”

  “I’m not asking you to,” he said, holding her hand a little tighter as a more avid light came into his eyes, like a hunter pouncing on its prey. “But does your first demand of me have to be that I allow you to leave me and take our son? That’s unreasonable. Try again.”

  She released a husk of a disbelieving laugh, sitting back and stealing her hand away from his. “I suppose asking you to quit being so arrogant is also unreasonable?”

  “And unrealistic,” he said without a hint of sheepishness or apology. “I don’t compromise, Octavia. That’s not who I am, but I’m trying to do it for you,” he added sincerely. “For my wife. To save our marriage. Do you see that?”