Page 39 of Wicked Sinner

Instead, he shrugs as if it doesn’t matter at all to him. “So long as Genovese was somewhere in your name, I don’t care.” He pulls out onto the highway, and I look at him, surprised.

“You really wouldn’t care?”

“Why would I?” He glances over at me with another shrug.

“Most men want to own their wives completely. Just their name slapped on hers, and nothing else.”

Caesar chuckles, but there’s something mirthless to it, as if whatever he’s thinking he doesn’t really find all that funny. “I don’t need you to carry only my name to know you were meant to be mine, bellissima.”

There’s a low, quiet conviction to his voice that startles me into silence. I look away quickly, out of the window again, feeling my stomach twist oddly. I tell myself I don’t like what he said, but I feel strange, all the same.

Caesar pulls into the parking garage, opening the door for me to get out. I follow him inside, to the elevator, and as he slides the key card into the slot for the penthouse, I feel a churning in my stomach, nerves overwhelming me at the idea of going back.

“How do you drink your coffee?” I blurt it out without thinking, and realize exactly how stupid it sounds the moment it comes out of my mouth. Caesar turns slowly to look at me, and from the confusion on his face, he thinks the same thing.

“What?” he asks finally, and I can feel my cheeks burning.

“We’re married now,” I mumble, embarrassment washing over me.

“Even if it’s temporary, it’s weird to be married to someone when I hardly know anything about him.

I don’t know how you like your coffee or what your favorite color is, or what you wanted to be when you grew up. If you’ve ever been in love or—”

“Black.” Caesar interrupts me, and I stare at him for a moment before I register what he’s saying. “I take my coffee black.”

I swallow hard, unsure of what to say now. It feels like he’s opening up to me, even though it’s something incredibly simple. “And your favorite color?” I whisper, and I see the corners of his mouth twitch.

“Blue,” he says simply. “I wanted to be a race car driver when I was a kid, before my father informed me that it wasn’t an appropriate sort of dream for the heir to the Genovese name. And no—” He draws in a slow breath, his eyes lingering on mine for a beat too long. “I’ve never been in love.”

It feels like the air goes still around us. “I don’t like coffee,” I whisper. “My favorite color is green.”

Caesar’s throat moves, and he takes a step closer to me. There’s still more than an arm’s length between us, but I can feel the air thicken. “And when you grew up?” he murmurs. “What did you want to be?”

I swallow hard. “Exactly what I did.” I feel my eyes burn. “I wanted to be a mechanic. Like my dad.”

Another step closer. He could reach out and touch me now, and I should move back, away from him. But I can’t. I can’t move. My skin feels like it’s on fire, and I want him closer, even as I want to shove him away.

“And the last question?” Caesar murmurs, taking another step, until I can feel how close he is to me now.

“No,” I whisper. “Never.”

His gaze lands on mine, dark and unreadable. “Good,” he whispers, just as the elevator chimes.

The doors open, breaking the moment between us, Caesar steps out into the hall, and I notice there’s more security milling around than there was before.

I feel relieved at the sight of them. Caesar can’t always be around—I don’t want him to be—and after what happened, I feel better knowing there are armed men watching the place where I’m staying.

That in and of itself makes me feel strange. Before the attack, I’d have pushed back at the thought of anyone watching me. I hadn’t liked the fact that Caesar was leaving Marco and Bryce to keep an eye on me at home.

The thought of them makes my throat tighten, and I dip my head as I follow Caesar into the penthouse, guilt curdling my stomach at the thought of what happened to them because of me.

Caesar looks at me as we step inside, dropping his keys into the dish on the side table by the door. I recognize it for the gesture of trust that it is—him letting me know that he doesn’t think I’ll try to run. “Want a tour?” he asks after a moment, and I nod.

For the next half hour or so, Caesar takes me around my temporary home.

He shows me where everything is in the kitchen, promising to order whatever kind of tea I like instead of just the coffee he currently has stocked, and then shows me the door that leads out from the living room onto a wraparound terrace.

“There are stairs on the far end that will take you up to the rooftop,” he tells me.

“There’s a pool and hot tub up there, if you want to take advantage of that. ”

He shows me where his office is, which I have no interest in, and a large entertainment room with a movie screen as big as a theater’s, as well as a home gym. The two bedrooms are upstairs—his and the guest room, which I assume will still be mine.

By the time we head back down, someone knocks on the door with takeout for an early dinner. I think Caesar can tell how tired I am by the time we finish eating. He looks over at me, his brow creased.

“Maybe you should go up and get some rest. My room—”

“I’m staying in the guest room,” I interrupt. “That’ll be my room, until this is all over.”

Caesar opens his mouth as if to argue with me, then closes it again. I can see the emotion flickering in his eyes, desire and disappointment mingled together. “We can share a room—”

“No, we can’t,” I say firmly. “This marriage is for show, right? To protect me. There’s nothing more to it. Nothing,” I emphasize, and I see his throat move the way it did in the elevator.

“Okay,” he says finally. "For now."

The way he says it makes my pulse skip. "Caesar—"

"I know what we agreed to," he says softly. "But that doesn't mean I don't want you."

I can see the truth of that written all over him, in his tense jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders, the heat in his eyes. He’s thinking about what our wedding night could have been like—could still be like, if I’d just give in—and he wants it.

“You can want me all you like,” I say quickly, looking away. “That doesn’t change anything.”

“Bridget—”

“I’m going upstairs. Good night, Caesar.” I get up before he can say anything else, heading to the stairs quickly and hurrying up them.

I’m exhausted, but it’s not even dark out yet, so I go and take a bath. I sink into the hot water, closing my eyes and trying not to think of Caesar downstairs, of what we could be doing tonight if I just gave in, what that one night together was like, what feels like forever ago.

I feel my body clench at the memory, desire sparking along my skin despite myself.

Caesar and I were a one-night stand, and then enemies, and now temporary allies, and how I feel for him after all of that is so confusing that I can’t untangle it all.

What I do know is that we don’t have a future.

Not one that makes sense to me, not one that works for me. But as for anything else…

My hand drifts down through the water to brush between my thighs, and my cheeks flush as I feel that I’m wet for reasons that have nothing to do with the water, slick and needy for something I can’t allow myself to have.

I brush my fingertip over my swollen clit, sucking in a breath through my teeth at the pleasure that ripples over my skin, and I try not to think of Caesar as I start to stroke my finger over that sensitive spot.

But it’s impossible not to. He’s in the same house as me, just downstairs, and it would be so easy to ask him for another night like the first one we had together.

My mind floods with the memories of that night—of the way he felt in my mouth, the taste of his cum, the feeling of his tongue between my thighs, the way he felt filling me up like no other man ever has.

It was perfect… he was perfect. And now I’m never going to experience that again.

Because I have a feeling that if I let him have even one more night, it could all too easily spiral out of control.

My body tenses, the pleasure building as I roll my finger over my clit, remembering how good his mouth felt.

No one else has ever done it that well, made me come screaming their name like that.

My hips arch up into my hand, my breath coming faster as I slide closer to the edge, and I tip my head back against the rim of the bathtub, wanting the orgasm.

I want to come, to feel good again, and I know if Caesar walked into this room right now, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from asking him to touch me.

But thankfully, he’s not here. He’s not anywhere near this room. All I have is the memory of what it felt like to be with him, and I let myself fall into it, headlong into the pleasure that crashes over me as my orgasm hits and a long, soft moan spills from my lips.

I lay in the bath for a long time after, letting the hot water sink into my muscles. I wait until it gets dark, and then I dry off and walk out into my room, stopping at the window to look at the lights of Miami gleaming beyond it.

I’m Caesar Genovese’s wife now.

But not forever.