“We’ll be fine,” Rafael murmurs to me.
“I know,” I reply tersely, still a little mad at him.
The guests rise as one when they see us, and slowly a thunderous applause fills the air. I scan their faces, trying to read the mood. Are they clapping because they’re genuinely happy, or because they’re afraid not to? Or maybe because we’re here despite someone trying to kill us?
Probably a little of all three.
I resist the urge to give them a queenly wave as the wedding coordinator rushes up to us and leads us onto the stage where our massive cake is waiting.
Dinner is supposed to be served before the cake cutting, but she seems to be speeding things up because the waiters start streaming in with the food as she directs us to stand in front of the cake. I try not to blatantly side-eye any of the waiters as I wrap my fingers around the cake knife.
We cut through the red velvet to cheers from the crowd, and I turn to Rafael, lifting a small slice to his lips. His eyes twinkle as he accepts the bite, then lifts his own slice to my mouth.
I’m still chewing when he leans down to press a brief but heart-stopping kiss to my lips. “You had a little something,” he murmurs thickly, rubbing his thumb across the corner of my mouth.
Liar. You just wanted to kiss me.
Then it’s time for the first dance. Rafael walks me towards the dance floor with a firm hand on my lower back.
“Do you even know how to dance?” I ask, because honestly, I’m picturing him stomping around.
He doesn’t dignify my question with a response. Just spins me to face him and steps into my personal space, his presence overwhelming every one of my senses. He clasps my right hand in his, and suddenly we’re so close his knees dig between my legs, my breasts press into his chest, and I can feel his warmth seep right through my dress.
Oh. He definitely knows how to dance.
The room seems to hold its breath as silence falls, broken only by the haunting violin strings.
I tilt my head up, my heart stuttering when I find him already watching me. His gaze is liquid fire, burning with a hunger and possessiveness that makes my toes curl in my shoes.
Holy hell.He’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. Right here. In front of everyone.
His hand moves sensually down my back, dropping dangerously low until the tips of his pinky and ring fingers graze the top of my ass. Electricity lances through me, the touch going straight to my head, and I can do nothing but melt against him.
“Any more questions about my prowess on the dance floor?” he leans down to murmur in my ear, his warm breath grazing the shell and sending shivers cascading down my spine.
I can only stare at him speechlessly, my brain having short-circuited somewhere around the time his fingers started their journey south.
His smirk widens, and he presses an open-mouthed kiss to my cheek, not missing a single step. The hand holding mine tightens, his thumb caressing my inner wrist. “Remember the favor you owe me?”
Oh, shit.
My brain scrambles to catch up, and when it does, worry wars with desire in my belly. Hisboon. “What about it?”
“I thought about it, and I’ve decided what I want. I want it tonight.”
“And what exactly did you decide?”
The music stops, but for a few breathless seconds, he keeps moving me across the dance floor. “You’ll find out, later.” He winks, then finally steps back, leaving me reeling.
My heart pounds as my mind races, trying to figure out what he could possibly want. A sexual favor? We signed the marriage certificate last night along with a separate marital contract stating this would be a real marriage in every sense of the word, meaning sex is already on the table. So it can’t be that, can it?
The rest of the reception passes in a blur, my thoughts consumed by what favor he might demand. And as we step into the elevator together to go up to the honeymoon suite, my heart pounding in my throat, I realize that’s exactly what he intended by telling me about it on the dance floor.
He wanted me distracted. Thinking about it. Getting worked up.
Asshole.
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