Our Finest Moment ✔️

30

LIANA

My wedding night was supposed to be filled with rose petals, champagne, chocolate covered strawberries and love. That's never going to happen. My wedding night, instead, involves my husband covered in actual blood—from murdering real people—his husky voice trying to seduce me, and my own libido doing backflips and trying to convince me to say yes.

But I can't. Can I?

He's so easy to say yes to. He's like a walking wet dream, even stained by blood. He draws a hand through his hair as he looks at me, expecting an answer to his ridiculous question.

"No," I finally say.

"No?" he echoes, pulling me closer by the damn belt from my bathrobe.

When Dorian came up here and said Colton would be delayed, I had to cover myself up somehow. It was just way easier to pull on a robe than to struggle back into the dress, no matter how gorgeous it was. I asked why he'd be late, but I only got a shrug as an answer—which made me worry. Not wanting to admit that I worried about him, I proceeded to ask Dorian about his mission to warm someone else's bed tonight.

"You infuriate me, Liana," Colton growls. "Do you remember rule number one?" He holds one finger up, and I slowly nod. I do remember it, now that he mentions it. He steps closer, and his voice is smooth and warm, as he says, "Good."

"I don't want to hold the gun," I clarify, wanting him to know that fact. The gun that took a life tonight. Holding it while he gets me off seems both incredibly hot and dangerous, making my body split between lust and disgust yet again.

He nods as he starts moving, tugging me with him to the closed off bedroom. I say nothing as I'm brought to the bed, to one of the poles at the head of it, and he ties the ends of the belt around it. My heart is thundering inside my chest, my breath quickening. I make a mental note to never wear belts again when we're alone—or maybe always—and try to steady myself as his darkened gaze lands on mine.

"What are you doing?" I dare to ask when he steps away, towards the bathroom.

His cufflinks clink against the stone counter in there before he answers. "I'm going to fuck you," he says, matter-of-factly. "I told you I wasn't done with you."

My breath hitches, and it has nothing to do with how he leans against the doorframe, now bare-chested and glorious in the dim light. It's officially confirmed—the tattoos on his hands and fingers do extend up his arms, to his chest, ending just below where the collars on his shirts are. My mouth is watering at the sight, especially when I see all the muscles down his torso, especially the strong V leading straight to the glorious member he's hiding beneath the bloodied pants.

I can't not look—I can't not want him. I always come back to this, to him, to wanting whatever he offers. No matter how much I loathe him and his contradicting personality, his dominating presence, I still find myself enjoying the view.

This monster of a man will ruin my life, and I don't think I'm going to mind that much. Not as much as I should, at least.

Reminding myself of what he's done since he left me here mere minutes ago, I say, "You just murdered someone, you can't go from that to wanting to fuck me."

He chuckles, the wicked grin on his face making my belly turn around in anticipating swirls.

"Of course I can." He walks towards me, slowly.

"You're insane," I comment, huffing my disbelief. "You're out of control!"

He reaches me, his hand gripping my jaw as he pulls my face deliciously close to his. His eyes are locked with mine as he asks, "Do you want to see out of control?"