Page 16 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)

MAXIM

When Marianna’s red dress slips from her pale shoulders and falls in a satin pool on the ground, it leaves in its wake lacy white lingerie that could technically be called a dress, but is practically see-through and ends just over the base of her ass, showing me all of her thighs beneath.

In refraining from running my palms up her sides, I bite my cheek so hard I almost draw blood.

My cock is already hard in my pants, tenting my slacks like a teenager. Marianna attempts to turn toward me, but I grip her shoulder to stop her.

“Wait,” I manage. “Just—give me a moment to look at you.”

She does as she’s told, which surprises me, and I realize I can’t just stand still and try not to pass out from all of the blood in my body rushing to my dick. So I do what my hand is begging for me to do and slide it down her back, then over her hip.

“You’re sure about this?” I ask. “You want to do this?”

“I do.”

Marianna lifts her hair off her neck and pulls it over one shoulder, revealing the perfect slope of her neck. I drag my index finger down her skin, thrilling to see the goosebumps that rise there.

“I know this isn’t real,” Marianna says, the reminder like cold water poured over me. “Not real feelings, real newlyweds, but we can pretend. If that makes it easier for you.”

I mutter curse words in Russian, hoping that if the language is different, then she might not hear so transparently how desperate I am for her. My hand has tightened on her waist without me noticing, pulling her back closer to me. “Pretend how?”

“You pretend you want me, I pretend to be the wife you wanted.”

I attempt to swallow the dryness in my throat.

If I tug her any closer, then she will see just how real my want for her is, how there’s nothing pretend about the heat coursing through my extremities from her presence.

Ducking my head low, I press a kiss against her shoulder, and then her neck, inciting from her a gasp that makes me sick with power.

“Like this?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“Yes.”

I wrap my arm around her front, spreading my palm out over her stomach and pulling her against me, boner be damned. I suck her skin into my mouth, then glide my tongue against the red spot I left there.

“Like that,” Marianna breathes, resting her head back against my shoulder.

I turn her to face me and roam my eyes over her face, not as guarded as usual now that her cheeks and neck are flushed pink; her eyes betray the desire she feels. I wonder if I reached between her legs, would I find her wet already?

“And like this?” I ask before I lower my mouth to hers, kissing her long and deep, pressing her lips open with my tongue and then tangling it with hers.

She kisses me back, just as deep, and her hands raise from her sides to hold onto me, one in my hair, the other clutching the front of my shirt.

I lift her off the ground, her legs wrapping around my waist, kissing and kissing as I take us to the bed.

My mouth still moves over hers as I place Marianna on the comforter and position myself over her. My hands want to explore her everywhere, and I can’t keep myself from roaming over the front of her, her tits, her stomach.

“Well?” I ask, pulling away from her.

“What?” She’s breathless, same as me.

“Is this how we pretend?” I ask. She’s quiet for a long moment before nodding.

My eyes trail over her body, then do a double take because holy fucking shit .

I didn’t think it was possible for more blood to rush to my dick, but the sight of her nipples beneath the white lace bra ruins me.

Her tits are practically spilling out of the cups, laid out as she is, and the red bow between them is what does me in.

I exhale a hard breath and cup one, squeezing until her nipple pebbles beneath my thumb.

“Wedding gift from my sisters,” she says, wearing an almost nervous smirk.

“We’ll have to send them a card.” I pull the fabric down, revealing the dark pink and, in the name of pretending, drop my head and pull the bud into my mouth.

Marianna gasps, arching her back closer to me.

“Perfect,” I breathe against her skin. Not to be forgotten, I pinch the other nipple over the bra until she makes a tiny, breathy moan that will sustain my fantasies into old age.

She’s completely overwhelming my senses, I might come in my pants just from touching her, from having her in my mouth like this.

“Take off your clothes.” Marianna pulls my hair until I turn my eyes to her.

“Say please,” I tell her, even with her perfect nipple still between my teeth.

She flushes at the command, her neck even more red, and I store that piece of information for later. I think my little wife likes to be told what to do and hates that she does.

“Maxim—”

I suck her nipple harder into my mouth then release it with a crude pop . I crawl back over her so my face is directly above hers. “Say it.”

“ Please , take off your clothes,” she says, though she doesn’t look happy about it.

I lean back on my knees, still straddling her hips, and unbutton my shirt. She stares at my chest as I do, then as I pull it off, her eyes roam over my shoulders and arms. She tugs up the blank muscle shirt, too, and I do as she bids, pulling the material over my head, and tossing it to the ground.

Marianna wriggles out from under me until she can sit up.

I remain completely still as she lightly scrapes her finger nails down my bare chest, my throat, my shoulder, down my bicep, and then my forearm.

I wonder what she thinks of the scars that mar my skin, dozens of thin, steady slices from my father’s blade.

Her fingertips trace them, then circle the bullet scar on my side.

Using her index finger, she traces over the edge of one of my tattoos, and I wonder if she likes them. My skin is as covered in bumps as hers was, and when she slides her fingers above the top of my waist band, I tense and shiver.

She reaches for my belt and starts to remove it, but if she does that, I will make an absolute embarrassment of myself, so I grip her wrist tight to stop her. Her hands are strong, but they look small in mine.

“You’re like a bear,” she says on a breath. I raise my eyebrows and she blushes like it was an observation she didn’t mean to share. “With the chest hair and the hands, I—it’s a lot.”

I think this is a compliment, if her red face and roving eyes are anything to go by. There is no comparison for her, so I call her what she is. “And you are a brat.”

Amusement lights in her eyes and she wriggles in my grasp until she’s sitting on her knees too. My eyes pinball between her bare thighs and cleavage, I think this is the single greatest garment to have been created in the history of clothing.

“Are you going to unhand me?” Her cheeks are still pushed into a smile, dark eyes bright.

“I don’t know that I can trust you not to use them to make a fool of me,” I tell her honestly, which only pleases her more. Slowly, I do let her hands go, and she bites her lip, keeping her hands in her lap and not attacking my belt like she had before.

I unbuckle the leather belt, unfasten the button of my slacks, and stand to strip them down my legs. She watches every movement while I watch her.

Her eyes are wide, tracing up my legs and torso, as if she’s committing what she sees to memory.

I would be self-conscious beneath her stare, but there is no judgement there, only curiosity and perhaps lust. Marianna crawls toward me on the bed.

I meet her at the edge of the bed, and tuck her curly hair behind both of her ears before holding either side of her face and kissing her again, tenderly this time.

Less feverish, but every bit as consuming.

“Like that,” Marianna says, pulling away from me before kissing me again.

Right . Pretending , I remind myself.

Pretending she is what I want in a wife—this inhumanly beautiful creature who cares for her family more than herself.

With my hands behind her back, I push her until she’s once again laid out beneath me.

I take the chance to stroke a hand up her bare leg, which is as muscular as the skin is smooth.

When I reach her hip, I lift her skirt, only to stop when I find panties as silky as the slip.

I pull back and stare like a fucking devil at the panties, pure white and high waisted, ruining me completely.

I curse again, Russian or English I’m not certain. I kneel between her legs and press her knees open until they are spread wide.

“As a wedding present, I’d like you to make me come,” she tells me, all confidence, though the lilt to her voice belies her nerves.

“You will come first on your husband’s tongue, and then you will come on your husband’s cock, do you understand?”

Her cheeks flame crimson, but she still quirks an eyebrow at me. “We’ll see.”

Taking her words for the challenge they are, I pull her toward me and hook my fingers beneath the band of her underwear before pulling them down her legs, off her ankles, and toss them to where my pants lie discarded. Later I will put them in my pocket and she will never see them again.

“You look like you’re thinking perverted thoughts,” she muses.

“As you so kindly reminded me, you are my wife, after all.” I waste no time dipping my fingers between her legs, then go preternaturally still at the supreme wetness I find there. “ Marianna .”

“Yes?” She sounds wary, like I’ve reprimanded her and she doesn’t know why.

“I haven’t even touched you yet and you’re this wet?” I press a finger inside of her without warning and her back arches with a surprised moan. “Have you been with anyone since Christmas?” I ask, maybe to torture myself.

“No,” she breathes. “You?”

“No,” I answer honestly. It’s been much, much longer than that—not since before the first night she stepped into my club early last year, but I do not tell her this.