Page 18 of Sins of Arrogance (Syndicate Sins #1)

KARA

"Mick."

"What?" I stare, my brain blank.

"I am called Mick."

"Oh. I'm Kara." I nearly smack my own forehead.

Of course, he knows my name and that I don't use a nickname. We just got married. The priest asked him if he took Kara Doyle Shaughnessy as his wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forward.

It's that having and holding thing that's making my brain mush and my insides shake with nerves.

"My father calls you Mick, but I didn't want to presume." Why am I even trying to talk? Everything coming out of my mouth makes me sound ridiculous.

Worse, I sound like a prim schoolteacher from the last century, not an eighteen-year-old who spent more time on her smartphone than studying the last month of high school.

Maybe that's good. I doubt Mick wants a reminder he's married to a woman eight years younger than him with no life experience.

"You are my wife." He says the words like they're an explanation.

"Um, yes?"

"Are you in some doubt?" His emerald-green eyes reflect humor for the first time today.

"N-uh…no." Convincing. Not.

"After tonight, there won't be any question," he promises darkly.

"But we can't…you know."

"I cannot penetrate your beautiful body with my bod, nah. But I will make you mine tonight, Kara."

I suck in a breath. Choke on it and then start coughing.

Amusement flares briefly in his gaze again, but then disappears quickly. "There are many things we can do that will give you pleasure that do not require intercourse."

"Oh, uh…sure." My face is so hot, I feel sunburnt.

Suddenly the champagne looks more like a lifeline than romance. Finally able to move again, now that I have a destination in sight that is not the bedroom, I head toward the glacette .

Mick catches my arm and stops me. "Nah."

I blink up at him. "No what?"

"No champagne."

"If I'm old enough to get married, I'm old enough to drink a glass of champagne to toast that marriage." Or a bottle.

Not that anyone else seems to agree with me. My glass at the reception had been filled with sparkling white grape juice. Tasty, but not exactly a fortifier for the night to come.

Mick tugs me toward the stairs. "You are not getting legless on our wedding night."

"I don’t want to get drunk." Lie. "But a small glass to toast our…"

Union . Mary, James and Joseph, I can't say that word. Or any other word right now.

Because Mick's finger is pressed against my lips, shushing me. "I didn't drink at the reception either."

Is that supposed to make me feel better? Maybe if he was a little tipsy, he'd fall asleep without doing his marital duty.

Seriously, Brogan called it that just the day before yesterday. He wanted to make sure I remembered that though I could be intimate with my husband, we could not fully consummate our marriage until after I got pregnant.

That's one conversation I never want to repeat. We were both as red as tomatoes by the time it was over.

Digging my heels in, I try to stop again. "Maybe we should talk for a while. I bet there's still a Scrabble game around here somewhere."

What the heck am I saying? This isn't a family vacation, not that we've been on one of those since Aunt Charity died. This is my wedding night.

A dark chuckle is the only answer I get to my suggestion.

So, no Scrabble.

"You don't have to be afraid of me, Kara."

I'm not afraid of him. I should be. He's Mick Fitzgerald. An diabhal . The son of a powerful mob leader in Dublin with a reputation as a killer. There are rumors he got made when he was still a child.

But I don't believe that. Not even in the mob, do they expect children to kill.

His control is legend. According to mamo , he never loses his temper or his composure.

He will smile while slitting your throat. At least that's the rumor. And that one? I believe, along with every other story about his ruthlessness.

I should definitely be afraid.

But I'm not. Nervous? Yes. I have no idea what happens next, but I'm shaking because I want him to touch me.

Whatever that means, however that plays out.

"I know the rules," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "We're not supposed to… not until after the IVF."

Something flickers in his eyes. Irritation? Regret? Hunger?

"Aye. But it doesn’t mean tonight has to be cold. That I can't make you scream my name with ecstasy."

Mick shifts and suddenly I'm being lifted high against his chest and he carries me up the stairs and into the primary bedroom.

Something settles inside me. Because he remembered. Tradition. Honor. Me.

When he sets me down beside the bed, the scent of roses has grown stronger and I realize the entire bedspread is covered in fresh petals too.

Mick turns me to face away from him and I see myself staring back from a mirror as big as a life-sized portrait.

My cheeks are flushed and my eyes are wide. My husband stands behind me, but he's not looking at the mirror. He's looking at me, his expression inscrutable.

I see his arm shifting and feel his fingertips on my back. They trail across my shoulder blades.

"So soft. Like silk." It's as if he's talking to himself, not me.

Then he starts undoing the buttons on my wedding gown. Thirty-six tiny pearl buttons that took Fi nearly five minutes to do up this morning.

Mick's deft hands finish in less than two. He doesn't fumble. He doesn't pause. Each button slips free like it was made to obey him.

And suddenly I can feel the air on the skin of my bare back.

"No bra?" he asks, his voice husky.

"No." I could explain that the modiste insisted the off-the-shoulder design would look better with support sewn into the bodice.

She assured me that my larger than average boobs would not shake like jelly when I walked. She'd been right.

But she'd said nothing of how I would feel when my new husband tried to peel the satin down my body with nothing to cover my naked breasts.

Without even thinking about it, both my hands came up to press the dress against my chest so it will not slide down and off.

Mick doesn't frown. Or look impatient.

In fact, one corner of his mouth tilts in something like a smile and he slides his big hands around my body and places them over mine. "Feeling shy?"

"I am shy." At least I am now, and he knows it.

He never met the other Kara. The daredevil. The girl who leaped for the next adventure without looking where she might land.

Mick's been here the past year getting to know the business. Brogan told me he was here to get to know me too, but that's a lie.

I never saw Mick alone. We didn't date or take walks on the shore to talk. He wasn't here for me, no matter what my father claimed.

He's not even in this room for me.

This is all about cementing an alliance.

He leans down so he can speak close to my ear in his panty melting Irish brogue. "There's no need to be shy with me."

"I can't help it." But that's not true.

Being quiet and holding back from people is a choice I deliberately make. There's less chance of losing someone else I love when I don't add any to the number.

Now that I'm married, I have no option but to get to know my husband. We'll be living together, sleeping in the same bed.

He kisses me right below my ear. "You'll get used to me."

Doubtful. I shiver, everything inside me ultra focused on the feel of his lips and how close they remain to my skin.

His hands curl right over mine to cup and squeeze my breasts.

And I forget how to breathe.

Wow! That's…I don’t know what it is. Weird? Wonderful?

My nipples suddenly ache. Like whoa. I press my palms harder against them. Oh, that's good.

"That's right, a stór ." He calls me treasure and my insides melt into a puddle of goo. "Like that."

Mick's hands guide mine into circular motions, abrading my tight peaks through my bodice.

It's not enough.

An embarrassing whimper escapes out of me.

"Fuck." Mick nips the side of my neck.

The use of that single word sends a burst of pleasure right to my core.

Mick usually uses the more Irish and softer word, feck. Is he losing a tiny bit of his control?

He starts tugging downward. "Let's get this off."

My arms stubbornly stay up. He kisses down my neck, taking my earlobe between his teeth and tugging.

Gasping at the burst of alien sensation fizzing through me like the champagne I didn't get to drink, I lose my grip on the dress.

Mick tugs the satin down, leaving nothing between my own palms and my sensitive nipples.

I groan as the gown drops into a pile of billowing satin and crinolines around my feet.

My gaze locks on the two of us together in the mirror again. He's still fully dressed in his wedding tuxedo. I'm only wearing a tiny pair of white lace panties, a garter belt and sheer silk stockings.

My breath catches and I bite my bottom lip, excitement warring with vulnerability.

" Tá tú chomh álainn ." You are so beautiful.

Does he really think that?

I've never felt beautiful. "I guess every bride is on her wedding night."

He growls. Like really growls at me. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever had the privilege of seeing naked."

How can that be true? But the expression on his face in the mirror is fierce.

I swallow. "Thank you."

His fingers skim my arms, my waist and down my belly, slipping into my panties and brushing over my trimmed pubes.

Oh, gosh. I never knew the hair there could be sensitive . Every follicle is hotwired to my clitoris and it pulses with pleasure.

I thought that was just a thing romance writers made up. The pulsing clitoris thing. I read a bunch in preparation for my wedding night, but honestly didn't believe it would or could feel like this.

I've touched myself, but Mick's fingers on me feel different.

He breathes out like he’s trying to keep a leash on something vicious inside him. "You're so bleedin' tempting."

My breath catches. It doesn't sound like a compliment, more like a warning.

Mick grabs me up into his arms and tosses me on my back on the bed. My breasts bounce and stinging pleasure knots my tender nipples.

He rips my Manolo Blahnik white satin heels right off my feet and tosses them aside but then he steps back.