Her vanilla scent was mixed with cinnamon and smelled like home-cooking he’d never had. He definitely didn’t deserve it now, so he stepped away from her touch. “This wasn’t about love. It’s about ensuring your protection and my fortune.”
Her eyes widened as she asked, “My protection?”
“Yes.” He'd never forget how Max Fionalli had stared at Clara. She’d be married to a fortune hunter and not even realize it until it was too late. Clara was too sweet to stop a predator.
She rolled her eyes and said, “I don’t need protecting.”
He slide off his black shoes to put them next to Clara’s white slippers and said, “If men like Max-”
“Even if you weren’t here, he wouldn't have a shot with me.” She spoke factually and adjusted his shoes so the pairs were straight in the rack. “I don’t tolerate self-entitled jerks well.”
She had no idea what was out there. She was so innocent that she’d be susceptible to the first guy who kissed her. Which had been him. His spine stiffened. “I’m self-entitled.”
She took a few pins from her hair like she didn’t want to go out for dinner anymore and laughed. “You’re not a jerk. You’re kind.”
Astorre accepted the responsibility of being Clara's husband. She had no idea what men like him were like and he’d have to keep himself from transforming into his father for her safety. “I’m going to have to disillusion you on that one.”
She shook her head. “Or you’re lying to yourself--but why?”
Out of the mouths of babes. She’d been through a lot but that didn’t prepare her for a man like him. In time she’d have to grow better armor. “Tomorrow we’ll head to Avce and you can judge for yourself.”
Clara settled on the full-sized couch in the living area of their suite. “I’m looking forward to seeing your home and meeting your sister.”
Olivia. His sister actually lived in the house he’d now fully inherit--he'd tell her tomorrow that she didn't have to move or take responsibility as the next heir to marry. He took the seat beside her. “You've already met my friends.”
Maybe if they stayed in their room, with dinner delivered for their wedding night, she wouldn't be nervous about life being "fancy" as she’d said on the trip, a lot. He reached behind her and unhooked the top button on her back. She pivoted away and stared at him like his touch was unwanted as she asked with a lift of her pert nose, “What are you doing?”
Fair. The clumsy move was worse than the horrible moment when he'd been thirteen and tried to kiss Melissa, who'd slapped him. Years later he’d had Melissa in his bed just to prove himself. Clara made his palms sweat. “Helping you out of that dress.”
Her jaw quivered and her blush was back. “You… want to have sex?”
Yes. Absolutely. He was already damned but he wondered what a night with Clara might be like; he'd been curious since they'd first met in Paris. He kept his hands on his knees so as not to scare her away. “It’s our wedding night.”
For a moment she didn’t move and his heart fluttered. She had total control right now, but then she turned around, giving him her back for the dress. “Okay, but don’t ruin the lace.”
At the top there were three buttons before the zipper. He was careful as he reached for them but just in case he ruined it, he said, “We can get you another.”
“This one is special,” she said. He unfastened the delicate satin buttons.
Once the three buttons were done, he brushed his hand on her exposed neck unable to ignore the strum in his veins. “I should warn you that…”
She turned her head toward him and whispered, “It’s in every book that the first time hurts a little.”
His face warmed. He squeezed her arm and said, “That’s wrong, and I’ll prove it, but not what I want to say.”
She faced him again and their knees brushed though they had her satin fabric and his pants between them. “What’s going on, Astorre?”
He was a monster. She should run in fear of him. How could he tell her that? “You’ll end up hating me eventually.”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
He was already a bad boy and it wouldn’t take much to turn him completely evil. He'd done things he wasn't proud of. He didn't want her to have expectations that would lead to disappointment. “I’m not emotionally open.”
“Are you talking about being in tune with your feelings?” They were both saved from his response as their phones rang.
He said, “Your phone is ringing.”
“So is yours.” She stood and grabbed the phones from the coffee table, handing him his as she said, “I want to tell Rossie about… our wedding.”
