“Don’t blame me for your psychosis.”
“You are my psychosis.”
“Rude,” I breathed against his lips.
He set his glass down, grabbed the back of my neck, and then kissed me deep and slow. He kissed me until my heartbeat throbbed between my legs. A frenzy burned through my blood. I pressed my body to his, raked my blunt nails down his stomach and tugged at his belt buckle. He made a rough sound in his throat, but his lips began to slow against mine. When I realized he was pulling away, I moaned in frustration.
“Nico . . .”
His thumb brushed over my mouth. “Surely a woman who acts like she’s at a funeral instead of getting married doesn’t want her husband to fuck her.”
“She does,” I protested.
Sex was sex and marriage was marriage.
Why was he always interweaving the two?
Didn’t he understand how much I wanted him? The words escaped me before I could stop them.
“I thought about you, you know . . . before we were engaged.” My blush was so intense it burned in my chest and made my heart race.
His body stilled for a split second. “Yeah?”
A tight sensation wrapped around my lungs—a mixture of fear, embarrassment, and vulnerability—but I needed him to know I wanted him. The truth was, I needed him in a way I couldn’t even fathom, but I couldn’t let anyone know it was that severe, especially him. Finding the courage somewhere deep inside of me, I rose to my toes and pressed my lips to his ear.
“After that moment in the kitchen at my parents’， I was so hot I couldn’t even think . . . so I went to my room and lay on my bed. And then I slipped my fingers inside me and pretended they were yours.”
Three heartbeats drummed in my ears.
“Fuck me,” he groaned, before grabbing my hips, lifting me, and meeting my mouth with his. Finally. My legs wrapped around his waist and my hands buried in his hair.
Walking me backward toward the stairs, he kissed me like he was trying to eat me alive. He was such a selfish kisser. Kissing me only when he wanted, biting me, controlling every dip, lick, and press of our lips.
He trailed his mouth down my neck, and I worked on his vest and shirt buttons. I wanted his skin against mine, something I’d only felt once, and something I ached for. I got all of them but the cuffs, which were impossible since his hands were kneading my ass. I tugged the white undershirt out of his pants and ran my hands beneath it. Over the hot skin of his stomach and chest. He hissed through his teeth, and a lungful of air escaped me when he fell on top of me on the bed.
He yanked on my dress, and a rip sounded as the straps came loose. “That was Chanel,” I breathed against his lips, but all thoughts vanished when he pulled down my bra and sucked on my breasts. His hands gripped low on my ass, and I sighed when his fingers slid beneath my panties, brushing my clit and teasing my entrance.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” he groaned.
I tensed when his finger inched into the wrong hole.
“Nico,” I gasped.
Beneath my palms, a tremor rolled through his chest. He slowed, kissed my cheek, and murmured against my lips, “Tell me to stop and I will.”
I didn’t believe I was an adventurous girl, but I suddenly knew I would do anything to feel this man shudder like that.
His gaze liquefied when I didn’t say a word. He watched my face as his finger pushed further inside of me. It was a strange feeling, but I grew hotter than I’d ever been at the way his breathing turned ragged and his body grew tense, as though he struggled with holding himself back.
Two of his fingers slid inside while one still filled my ass. I groaned when he began to move them in and out slowly. The fullness was intense, delicious, and close to tipping me over the edge. He kissed my throat, and I shook beneath him as his fingers fucked me agonizingly slow.
I fisted the sheets, dug my heels into the bed, and when I came he swallowed my noises in his mouth. The finesse of the kiss faded. He nipped at my lips and jaw. Sucked on my tongue. Clinked my teeth.
It was messy and dirty. And everything him.
“I’m going to fuck you slowly,” he breathed in my ear.
He did as he said.
And in every possible way.
The kitchen. The living room. The shower. The hallway. His bed.
Seven days passed, and I grew very familiar with Nico, sex, and every possible place and position to have it.
I didn’t think it was healthy.
I breathed, slept, and consumed everything Nicolas Russo.
The first time I attempted to leave his bed after we were married, he grabbed my wrist and watched me with that lazy stare again. This time, he would hold me there forever. Not once had he complained about the ring, and I could only assume he felt better about it now that his was on my finger as well.