The Don and the Wife

(4) wedding night darkness ♡

Chapter 4

wedding night darkness ♡

The click of the door shutting seems like a gentle warning that applies to the rest of my life: Cavallaro Donatelli and I are alone and there isn't anything I can do about it.

I know what is supposed to happen tonight, he is to make me his and I am to lie there and suffer through it like the supposed virgin he was promised. My gaze watches as he undoes his cufflinks, strong, powerful and all man. I can't deny that my pussy pulses at the mere thought of having him inside me.

But not yet; I need to earn his trust, or at least his respect so when he finds out that I'm not a blushing virgin, he doesn't shoot me on the spot — hopefully he'll wait long enough for me to say goodbye to my loved ones first.

Turning away from the door, Cavallaro's stone gaze falls onto where I have sunk onto the footstool at the end of his four-poster bed.

Inch by inch, he takes deliberate steps towards me whilst admire how everything about him is graceful and agile, like a cat. But not the cute kitten you feed milk and treats to, a big cat; a lion or a tiger, built of solid muscle and honed to capture and kill it's prey.

Immediately, I rise from the footstool, not wanting him to mistake my seated position as submission. He stops when we are toe to toe and without the death trap heels on my feet, the top of my head reaches just below his chin.

Cold grey eyes move away from my own and begin a slow dance along my body, flickering across my cleavage, down the cinch of my waist before lifting up again to rest on the display of my ample chest. My breathing accelerates at his heated look and something flashes across his gaze as my chest begins to visibly move faster.

A growl escapes his throat and he lifts a hand to trail a slow finger down from my neck through to the V of my dress, stopping only because he is interrupted by the fabric. Tingles explode beneath the surface of my skin, spreading warmth to places I never thought I'd associate with Cavallaro's hot touch.

Abruptly, his hands shoot out to grab my hips, tugging me into the hard line of his body. "Remove this," he orders, slipping his hand below his family crest engraved into the back of my dress.

"I can't," I murmur, bunching the fabric in my hands, "the clasps are at the back."

Ringed fingers, made to deliver death, begin slowly flicking undone the jewelled buttons which conceal me from him. Each delicate twitch of his fingers sends a rush down my spine as I gaze up at his hard expression which wavers under the heat of his lust.

My breaths become uneven and my hands release the silk of my dress to instead clutch at the pressed linen of his shirt.

And then the white dress pools around my ankles, stark against his black carpet and a reminder of my supposedly innocent nature.

I am left standing in again, only white, but this outfit makes his nostrils flare, his grip tighten and his pupils dilate in unrestrained hunger.

An image of what he sees in that moment flashes behind my eyes. My smooth chest held up by nothing but a sheer lace strapless bra. White panties which mould against my tanned thighs and tease glimpses of the treasure that is supposed to belong only to him. And then I think of the final item.

The white lace garter which clings to my right inner thigh, a reminder of the purpose of this outfit: to tease away my innocence.

The silence of his bedroom suffocates me and turns my anticipatory lust into brief panic. I step away from him, "I won't let you fuck me tonight," I declare.

Nimble fingers pause in the removal of his shirt and his cold as steel eyes lift to meet my own, "Who said you had a choice, sirena?"

I suck in an audible breathe, "That's rape," I admonish.

His biceps flex as he removes his shirt, revealing a crisp white wife beater below, "Not in our world, you are my wife — sex with you is my right," he fixes me with a hard glare, "I own you, sirena."

My chin tilts upwards stubbornly, "No-one owns me but me, marito."

Husband.

Something dark and predatory flashes in his eyes and he storms over to me, stopping only when his large hand is gripping my chin tightly.

"Watch your tone," he warns, "you were raised to be my wife, learn to act on what you were taught."

With a rough shove, he releases me so he can make his way into the ensuite bathroom, allowing me time to scramble into the walk in closet, desperate to cover myself. Panic makes my eyes flicker around the room aimlessly but all I can find are silky negligee's which will do nothing to tamper the raging hard on which he sported when he left me panting in his room.

Around 10 minutes pass before Cavallaro emerges, his hair is wet from a shower and a towel hangs dangerously low on his waist.

Water makes his skin glisten in a way which I do not want to appreciate and yet I can't help but. I was right when I concluded that he was stacked with muscle, abs tense and flex as he moves about the room and like every Made Man I know, he is inked, but in the most delicious way.

Not only do the tattoos themselves seem very carefully deliberated, but the placement of them too. They seem as though they were born with him, rippling so naturally with every movement of his muscles, winking dangerously as though daring me to reach out and trace them with my fingers...or my tongue.

Dropping his towel with no regard for my form tucked below the covers, Cavallaro tugs on some black Calvins and runs some form of product through his hair. I notice how everything in his room, in his life really, is orderly and neat.

His products are lined up like obedient soldiers on his dresser top. Dirty laundry is placed in a hamper to lay folded in contradiction. Shoes are unscuffed and uncreased as they perch on a rack by the door. And nothing personal adorns the flat surfaces of the room.

It is plain.

Ignoring my presence completely, Cavallaro makes his way over to the bed before sinking his monstrous weight into the mattress and pulling the covers until they sit dangerously low on his hips.

"Are you going to touch me?" I whisper into the darkness.

"Do you want me to touch you, Lyra?" His deep voice rumbles.

"Of course not," I declare the lie loudly and proudly, "but I didn't think you would respect my wishes."

And I genuinely didn't. I was raised to be his wife and I know that sex is a massive part of that. If he wants to fuck me, I have to let him; it is the rules of our world.

A menacing chuckle falls from his lips but it isn't humorous, it is dark and dangerous and makes the hairs on my suddenly cold skin stand on edge.

And then a shadow hangs above me, arms caging me against the bed and the smell of lemon soap envelops me.

Hovering above me, Cavallaro stares at me with eyes darker than the blackness that I thought shrouded us. Everything in the room seems too small and insignificant to be seen in the shadows; everything but him.

"When I take you Lyra," he mumbles moving my hair away from my ear so his lips can caress the shell as he speaks, "it will not be rape," he practically spits the word, "you will beg for it. You will plead for my cock, sirena, and when I finally give it to you, it will be so hard and so good that you will spend the rest of your life, the rest of our life, continually desperate for more."

Siren.

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Written on: —

Edited on: 24/01/22 —27/08/22

Finalised on: 30/12/22

I hope everyone had a good Xmas and has a good New Year :) xx