"Give me credit, mia moglie. I'm not stupid."
Her lips part, and it takes all my strength not to kiss her fucking senseless.
"As hot as it is to hear you speak Italian, it frustrates me."
"My wife." As the words leave my mouth, they tense the air around us. Anticipation, unadulterated lust, and a maddening need to force this stubborn woman to bend to my will-it's all so fucking intoxicating and addictive.
Mariya stares at me for a solid minute before she steps away from me. She glances around the room, taking in the dark furnishings, the insanely neat walk-in closet, and the door leading to the luxurious ensuite bathroom.
When her eyes come to a stop on the bed, she says, "If you touch me without my permission, I'll kill you."
A spark of anger heats my blood. "I'm offended you felt
the need to say that," I mutter as I shrug out of my jacket. Mariya lets out a tired sigh. "You're the one who said this
will be a real marriage."
Remembering she has a hangover, I say, "We'll both feel better after a nap."
Her gaze follows me into the closet as I loosen my tie and unbutton my shirt. I don't even look at her as I say, "I don't expect you to spread your legs tonight, Mariya." Grabbing a t- shirt and a pair of sweatpants, I turn to face her. "I'll give you time to get used to us as a couple."
Her eyes sweep over my chest, a flash of desire darkening her eyes. Then she mutters, "Don't hold your breath while you wait."