Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77998 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“How’d you manage to do that?”
I scowl and look out the window. The less I say the better. “She fucked up a business arrangement. I retaliated.”
He chuckles softly to himself. “Retaliated by scoring a Rossi woman. Only you, you fuckin’ genius asshole.” He sounds friendly, familiar, like he’s pleased with me, but I know him well enough to hear the underlying jealousy.
“I want the wedding tomorrow.”
“Beach house?”
“Of course.”
I roll my eyes and look over at Marialena.
I wonder if she’s a virgin.
I’ll know soon enough.
“Who do I invite?”
I stretch my shoulders and flex my neck. I need a good lifting session, soon, and a good night’s sleep.
Who to invite?
I’m making an announcement of huge proportions. We’re joining two families together on the East Coast. My family hasn’t made a strategic move like this in decades.
It’s time.
“Invite everyone.”
She tenses but doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.
“On it. Father Esperanza?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll be there. Food?”
I give him a litany of family favorites, then cover the mouthpiece and ask Marialena, “You have any food or cake preferences?” I can at least throw her a bone.
She gives me a sardonic smirk, her lips pursed and eyebrows raised as if to say, “really?”
“I’ll take that as a no,” I say in a low voice. “But we’ll talk about how you address me.”
The smirk leaks from her face. She looks back out the window.
“Can my family supply the wine?” she asks, not looking at me. I wonder why that matters to her.
“No.”
Another stiffening of the shoulders. No one supplies food or drinks to my family functions except me.
She doesn’t reply.
“I’ll consider allowing them to come to the ceremony.”
“Fine,” she says, then tacks on with a sarcastic flair, “Sir. Or do you prefer Your Highness?”
Ah, so we’ve gotten there already. Didn’t take her long.
Cristiano chuckles on the line. I disconnect the call, slide the phone into my pocket, and reach for her wrist. I spread my knees, and without warning, tug her fully over my lap.
“Hey!” she protests, her eyes wide with alarm. “Hey, this is not fair. Don’t you dare!”
Too late. I’ve already dared, my palm already stinging from the first smack of my palm across her ass. I give her six searing swats without pausing for her to catch a breath, then unceremoniously dump her back beside me as we pull into the terminal.
Her cheeks are flushed, her hair askew. Before she can speak, I reach for her chin and hold it firmly. “Apologize, or we do that again and the next time will be your bare ass over my knee.”
I watch as her eyes smolder with anger and pent-up frustration.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. Eying me, she moves further away as if to distance herself from me.
“Don’t you dare. Get over here.”
Slowly, she moves back closer to me. I take her wrist and pin it to my side as we cruise to a stop.
I don’t waste my breath lecturing her. Marialena was raised Rossi and knows from her brothers what’s expected of her.
It’s a good start. Now she’ll learn from me what’s expected.
Outside the tinted window, I see our jet waiting. I get out first, then reach my hand to her. She looks as if she’d rather grab a python but takes it when I narrow my eyes at her. Hanging her head, she obeys, likely only meek because of the brief punishment she earned.
Still, I don’t give her a chance. I don’t know who’s watching us, but I want her and any onlooker to know that I’m literally carrying this woman home as my prize.
So as soon as she gets out of the car, I yank her over to me. She stumbles and gasps when I dip, lift her up, and toss her over my shoulder.
“What are you—how—why—Salvatore!”
Ah. It’s the first time she’s called me by name. I love the way she pronounces it without the American plainness, the roll of the r like a good girl who knows her Italian upbringing.
Salva-TOR-ay.
I stand and steady myself with her over my shoulder.
“Put me down,” she says softly, in a pleading voice.
“No.”
“I don’t want to be—”
With her conveniently over my shoulder, it’s an easy matter to crack my palm against her ass to silence her. She’s instantly subdued. Hell, yeah. I like that.
“I didn’t ask you what you wanted,” I tell her as we march toward the open door of our waiting plane. “I told you what you can expect. I have a statement to make, and I’ll make that right here, right now.” I squeeze her ass as a reminder that she belongs to me now, and when we get to the tarmac, I slide her down, her body pressed up against mine.
I wrap my fingers around her neck and yank her to me. When her mouth falls open in protest, I kiss her. Hard and punishing, my lips pry hers open as my tongue invades her mouth. She tastes like wine and berries, her lips so soft I groan into her mouth. Her hands fly up to push me away, but her efforts are fruitless. I easily deflect her protest and guide her hands back to her sides.