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At the nape of her neck, her fine hair curls with sweat. I bury my nose in her scent as I thrust into her. I’m curled over her body, with only felt-covered slate beneath us. Unyielding. She’s mine.

But I’m aware of what this position means to her. I fist my hand in her hair, turning her face to mine. Then I kiss her deeply, so deeply she moans. This isn’t me taking, this is me giving her pleasure.

I kiss her until she writhes. With that sexy little gasp of hers, she wriggles on my cock. Her pussy’s so tight, I struggle to contain myself as she clenches and squirms. She’s still beneath me on the pool table, still at my mercy.

And yet.

I’m the one who would do anything for her. I’m the one who would burn down the world, if that meant she could have a single night of peace.

It’s so fucking sexy, the way she moves beneath me. So clearly wanting to please me. When really, the fact that she’s in my life is all that matters.

I sink my cock as deep as possible, and we both moan. Biting her earlobe, I whisper that she has my permission to come. Then I reach down beneath her, jerking her back from the pool table so I can shove my hand between her thighs. The feel of her swollen clit is like a direct signal to my brain. Mine.

She’s this turned on for me. She’s bent over, despite her fears, because she trusts me. I work her sensitive bud until she’s spasming around my cock.

That’s when I let go. I pump her so full of my come that I imagine it filling her completely. Leaking from her pussy for days, sticky streaks marking her fine legs as mine. The thought is so intoxicating that I lose myself as I’m bent over her. She squeezes my hand, murmurs my name, strokes my cheek to bring me back to the present.

“I love you,” she whispers.

My galloping heart lurches, because of course I love this woman. And we’ve said it before, best friend to best friend. In times of sadness when we needed encouragement. Or at occasions of celebration and pride, first-place cross-country meets and honor roll ceremonies.

Never like this.

I wish it didn’t mean as much as it does. That Brioni didn’t mean the world to me, in this soul-consuming, conscience-burning way.

But the truth is as obvious as a brand on my chest. As painful, too.

“I love you,” I say in her ear.

And then, because I can’t stand how tender this moment is, I bite hard on her earlobe. And grin to myself when her pussy tightens around my cock.

Chapter 43

Liam

She’s ready. She can handle every side of me.

And I’m more than ready. I’ve been wanting to commit my life to this woman for decades. My greatest concern was always that she was too good for me, that I didn’t want to drag her down into this darkness of mine.

She’s still too good for me. She’s a goddamn angel. But she’s shown she has what it takes to survive in my hellish world. And if she doesn’t think she’s too good for me, then that’s all that matters.

In any moments of doubt, I’ll be there to protect her. I’ve demonstrated that I can, and I always will. Same as I proved myself ready to be head of this family.

And it was thrilling. I wasn’t just born to lead my family’s empire. I am the empire.

I can discipline a foot soldier so he never disobeys again. I can interrogate a trainee and still command his respect. I can terminate a problem without remorse, with a sense of euphoria in my veins. I can channel that high into more violence, more domination, and even hotter sex.

Brioni and I haven’t spoken about consummating our marriage. So I’ve been fucking her like my life’s happiness depends on it. If these are the last few times I’ll ever get to taste her sweet cunt, then I’m going to savor every drop of her wetness.

Thankfully, she’s agreed to take the rest of the week before our wedding off. More accurately, I ordered Antoine to give her the rest of the week off. Giving me as much time as possible to fuck her at every opportunity.

After a particularly energetic round on our gym’s leg press, I tell Brioni to take her time in the shower. Then I slip into the game room and lock the door behind me.

It’s not a game room anymore. I’ve had all the arcade games and bowling machinery removed. There wasn’t time to remove the lane itself, so I changed it into a display base for all of her dress mannequins.

It’s Brioni’s new sewing room. The highest-end model of every type of sewing machine now waits for her on a series of sleek white worktables. Without the pinball machines, none of the expansive windows are blocked. Beneath the sunniest one, I’ve outfitted a wide daybed with the most glorious quilts. Her quilts.

As I evaluate them in the afternoon light, I change one fold here, another there. But I’m only making it worse. The way they’re draped, they transform the daybed into a kaleidoscope of flawless patterns, swirls of color, epitomes of pure talent.