EMILIA
I squeal when Rafael’s hands slide around my lower back and behind my knee, sweeping me clean off the floor. My arms clutch desperately at his shoulders as he steps out of the elevator. “What are you doing?”
“Carrying my bride over the threshold,” he answers as he strides towards the huge door across the little lobby the elevator opened up to. “Isn’t that the tradition?” He types in the code quickly, and the lock unlatches with a low beep.
“You’re supposed to carry the bride over the threshold of your house, not some hotel room,” I scold but can’t swallow my amusement.
“My house, hotel room—same difference. You’re still my wife.” He grins down at me as he steps inside, kicking the door shut behind us and flicking on the lights. The breath catches in my throat as I take in the scene before us.
We’re on the top floor of the thirty-story hotel, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city sprawling below us. But it’s not the stunning view outside that steals my breath.
It’s the view inside.
A trail of red and white roses creates a path from where we stand, dotted with flickering LED candles that cast pools of golden light on the floor. The romantic display leads through the elegant living area, past the sleek kitchen visible through the glass doors, and disappears into the bedroom beyond sliding glass doors left tantalizingly open.
My husband carries me along this floral pathway, and my heart starts doing acrobatics in my chest.
The roses end at the majestic bed positioned in the center of the room, draped in pretty beige silks and piled with fluffy pillows. Champagne chills in an ice bucket beside the bed, next to a bowl of?—
Is that whipped cream?
Heat flares in my cheeks as my imagination runs wild, but then my gaze shifts to the bedside table, and my blood turns to ice.
Oh. Oh fuck.
A wide tray waits there, laid out neatly: a tattoo machine, sealed needles, disposable ink caps, medical gloves, a small razor, antiseptic wipes, stencil paper, plastic wrap, and medical tape.
I don’t need him to tell me what they’re for.
“You are my wife, and you will bear my name and heirs. But I want something even more. I want you to bear my mark.”
My stomach churns. There’s a lot to unpack in those words.Bear his heirs?I haven’t thought past tonight, and he’s already planning our kids—plural? I push my racing thoughts aside and focus on the immediate threat. “You already have your mark on me, Rafael. You have for years.”
He raises a brow in question, and I slip off my heels. I make my way to the bed, perch on the edge, and lift my right foot, twisting my ankle so he can see the ink on my heel.
Rafael moves closer, dropping to his knees in front of me.His warm hand closes around my ankle, and my clit fucking throbs at the contact.
It wasn’t a sexual touch, I try to convince my brain, but my body isn’t buying it.
His brows pull together as he studies the ink, and I follow his gaze, breathing through my mouth. Maybe if I don’t inhale his drugging cologne, I can get my growing arousal under control.
It’s a small, very small design of azaleas, and nestled in the middle of the stalks, almost imperceptible, is anR. I got it the night after Stacey recruited me, the night after I ran away from the cramped apartment all five of us shared because I regretted not getting the tattoo together with them.
“I was initially going to get a smaller replica of the tattoos you and the guys have over your scars. And because I wanted it somewhere it could stay hidden, I chose my heel. But it was painful as fuck, so I settled for just this.”
I shudder as the phantom pain washes over me. I screamed so loudly with tears streaming down my cheeks throughout the whole ordeal, that my throat was raw for days afterwards.
With my ankle loosely imprisoned between his fingers, Rafael’s thumb begins a slow, torturous massage over the spot, and I have to grip the silk comforter to keep from falling apart. The sensation shoots straight to my core, making me ache in ways that should be illegal.
When he presses into my instep, a throaty moan escapes before I can even think about stopping it. His head snaps up, eyes wide with startled fascination, like he wasn’t expecting that sound from me. Heat floods my cheeks, blooming all the way down my neck as I blush furiously.
That brings a devastating, cocky smile to his lips, and then his thumb digs in again with just enough pressure to make my back arch right off the bed. My breath catches in my throat, another needy little sound slipping out.
The bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“This pleases me,” he says finally. “And I particularly like seeing the initial of my first name. But now it’s time you carry my mark somewhere everyone can see it. So no one has a doubt in their mind who the fuck you belong to.” His last words come out as a growl as he moves up my body and captures my lips with his.
My hands fly to his shoulder, clutching him to me as I kiss him back with all the lust that’s been building throughout this entire insane day.
