I don’t know. Fuck, I don’t know. Maybe there was a better way for all of this to happen. Me, Dani, my father—all of us have sinned in our ways. I wonder how much is too much.
I turn to find Dani looking at the valet sprawled on the ground. “He needs help, Angelo,” she whispers.
She won’t look me in the eye.
After getting the valet the appropriate care and giving our statements to the police, we drive home in a Family car. Dani hardly says anything to me. But when I told the police that the goons ran away when they heard a car pulling in, Dani didn’t contradict me. So I’m guessing on some level, she isn’t completely freaked out, or at least not so much that she can’t keep her wits about her.
At the penthouse, we ride the elevator upstairs, again in silence. It’s only once we’re through the door that she spins on me.
“Who the fuck are you?” she snaps. “Hotshot playboy, rich guy—I get that. But who just ends a mugging by dropping their name?”
“Not the time, Dani,” I sigh, rubbing my temples.
“Is it ever the time?” she says, but her voice is softening, and when I grab us both a drink, she takes it with a silent nod. “Those men looked terrified, Angelo. How did they even know who you are? You said you’re a club owner.”
“I am a club owner,” I say.
“What else?”
I place my beer on the bar and walk around to her, standing close, feeling the heat of her. She bites her lip as she looks up at me. I can sense the lust in her, burning. It’s the same lust in me: alcohol, chemistry, the ache of near-violence.
“I am your husband,” I say. I reach out and stroke her hip. It’s a stupid, drunken answer, obvious for what it is—a deflection. She doesn’t take the bait.
“What sort of answer is that?” she snaps as she grabs my wrist and plucks it off of her. I think she’s going to push me away, but she doesn’t.
I look her dead in the eyes. “It is a lie, yes. But it is also as honest an answer as you are going to get tonight, Dani. Do not press farther.” I feel her grip on my wrist hesitate, then soften, and suddenly, I am running my fingertips underneath the hem of her skirt.
“You’re a liar, Angelo,” she whispers as I find the cleft of her hip and push aside her lacy underwear. “Don’t think this gets you off the hook.”
She presses her body against me, burying her face in my chest as she moans again. I know what that means: she wants to hide her face because then she doesn’t have to think about how she’s not confronting me, how she’s letting our lust take over. Like she’s not ashamed, but annoyed with herself. I lightly grab her hair, pull it, willing her to look at me.
She stares up with wide, gorgeous eyes. “Are you going to spank me again, playboy?” she whispers.
“No,” I growl. “Not tonight. I want to watch you ride me. I want to grab your tight hips and throw you up and down until we’re both coming so hard we bring this whole fucking building down with our moaning.”
She makes a whimpering noise. “Then you better get to the couch.”
I laugh quietly, despite my better instincts.
“What are you laughing at?” she asks me.
“Our first fight as a married couple,” I say softly.
She shakes her head and waggles her finger at me. “This is a ceasefire, nothing more.”
In reply, I grab her and pull her into my lap. Our lips are like fire on each other. I think I’ll die if I don’t get to fuck her. My whole body is shaking when she leans up, reaching down to pry my cock free from my pants. It springs free and she sits up.
I grab her hips and lift her up, line myself up with her entrance, and then push her—slowly, slowly—back down, feeling every inch of sweltering pleasure. She makes moaning noises straight out of my dreams. My balls are so full I’m surprised I haven’t come already. Her moans get shorter and sharper with each up and down.