how many times I think that, it doesn’t seem real. It’s too perfect. Because I’m not just getting married. I’m getting married to the love of my life.
Then Angelo knocks on the door. I can tell it’s him right away. That’s what happens when you share a home with somebody for over a year. You learn everything about them, even the unique sound of their knocking.
“Playboy, you better not be trying to ruin the surprise,” I say, moving over to the door.
He chuckles. “You always know it’s me,” he says. “No, I’m just here to tell you now this has all been a big prank. We’re going to have the wedding, of course, but it’s just for show. I need a fake wife, you see …”
“Ha. Ha. Ha,” I sass. “You’re so funny.”
There’s a pause. I feel like he’s nervous, too, not that I should be able to tell that through the door.
“Is Gio okay?” I ask.
“Giovanni is fine,” Angelo says. I know he’s smiling, like he always does when I call our son Gio and he goes for the more official Giovanni. “He’s sleeping soundly in Madolina’s arms. I just wanted to give you this.”
“What?”
“Wait a second.”
I hear some rustling, and then, looking down, I see that he’s sliding a letter under the door. I pick up the envelope and open it, warning myself not to cry because it will ruin my makeup.
I start to read:
My dearest Dani,
I love you more than I’ve ever loved anybody.
I’m writing this because you know what I’m like. Saying things like this aloud—that is hard for me. But it’s the truth. I love you more than I could ever explain and I can’t wait to meet our baby. I can’t wait to grow old with you. I can’t wait for any of the things that lie in our future.
Because, good or bad, I know that I will meet them with you by my side.
I love you, signora.
Yours forever,
Angelo
“Meet our baby?” I whisper, almost losing the crying battle. Is he trying to sabotage my stylists or something? “When did you write this?”
“Just after I got out of the hospital,” he murmurs.
“You waited a year to give me this?” I gasp. “Why?”
He laughs quietly. “I suppose I wanted it to mean something.”
I don’t give myself time to second-guess my decision. I just throw the door open, revealing Angelo there in his steel-blue suit, his face clean-shaven just for the wedding—he was letting his beard grow out before that—and his bright eyes lit up with happiness.
“Dani!” he gasps as he shields his eyes.
I step forward, prying his hand loose, and then pull him into the room. I shut the door behind him, gesturing with the letter. “This was a twisted plan, wasn’t it? You wrote this letter just now as a way to seduce me.”
I’m teasing, big-time, and I can see he’s loving every sassy second of it. He grins, smoothing his hand softly down my back, toward my ass, being careful not to crumple my wedding dress. This might have something to do with the fact that I warned him, on penalty of death, that he’d be in big trouble if he ruined my outfit.
But I can’t take his soft touch, and I grind against him, moaning softly. So in tune with each other’s bodies, he grabs me harder, knowing that’s what I want, palming my ass and then sliding his other hand up my leg, his fingertips rustling my white stockings.
“We can’t make love,” I say firmly. “But I want to, bad. You’re a jerk, you know that? I promised myself I wouldn’t get all worked up until after the wedding.”
He leans close, breath caressing me as his fingers inch higher and higher up my thigh. “Don’t be so unimaginative, fidanzato.”
Fiancé. He’s been saying it for a year straight, and it still makes me shiver every time.
In answer, I grab his wrist and guide his hand to my center. There is something so sexy about the necessity of not messing up our outfits, like we want to just devour each other but we have to show some—just a tiny bit—self-restraint. He pushes aside my underwear and finds my wanting clit.
“Quicker,” I moan, voice catching.
He picks up speed as my incoming orgasm gathers steam. Outside, I can hear people talking. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can hear somebody asking where Angelo is. We’re racing against the clock, and it just makes me even hornier.