Violent Triumphs (White Monarch 3)

“Diego knew it before I did.”

My heart skipped painfully. Diego had used me; that wasn’t news. But Cristiano could easily do the same. I was here because of deals they’d made behind my back—how could I trust Cristiano after all that he’d done, after years of hating him? But the bigger problem was how I could trust myself. I touched my neck. “The last thing I want is to care about someone again—and have him betray me.”

“Then hear me.” He leaned forward. “I’ve been trying to tell you this for a while. You are more than a conquest to me. More than an exchange of power. You’re Bianca and Costa’s daughter.” Grabbing the arms of my chair, he dragged it forward until our faces were centimeters apart. “You’re the girl I was hired to protect, and would have, if I hadn’t been framed for Bianca’s murder and forced away. You’re my wife.” His breath teased my lips, and I resisted from closing the short distance between our mouths. “And if seeing me on my deathbed wasn’t reason enough to convince you of that, then I’ll have to get creative.”

I didn’t need more convincing. But his declarations and determination were too good not to indulge. I met his eyes. “Creative how?”

He ran the backs of his knuckles along the length of my throat. With that one touch, my mouth went bone dry, but I got very wet somewhere else—the tender spot Cristiano grew more and more impatient to claim.

“I believe I owe you a debt, Mrs. de la Rosa—and you’re about to collect.” He took my chin in a gentle touch that contradicted the hardness in his gaze. “You’ve sworn to be at my dinner table every night.” Rising to his full, intimidating height, he looked down on me. “Now I want you on it.”

8

Natalia

It was time to collect on a debt Cristiano owed me.

Words I’d never expected to think . . . and especially not in this context.

Dinner was over before it’d begun, and Cristiano stood above me, looking hungrier by the second. “Do I need to repeat myself?” he asked. “I said get on the table so I can make your cunt my next meal.”

Butterflies exploded in my stomach. I barely managed to contain my gasp at his vulgarity, but I couldn’t control the gush of warmth between my legs. “But your wounds—”

“My mouth still works.”

I rose from my chair. “The doctor said—”

“Your husband is hungry.” With a knuckle under my chin, he raised my face. “I’ve waited long enough to see how you taste, and you’ve waited patiently for me to pay my debt. You don’t have to tell me you want it—only if you don’t.” He stepped aside and nodded at the long, sturdy table that seated at least twenty people. “You have until my face is between your legs to object.”

Desire coiled in me. At one time, keeping him at arm’s length had been the right move, but the best part of resisting him up until now had been giving in. “I can’t object once you’ve started?”

“You can”—he picked me up by my waist and plopped me on the table—“but you won’t.”

“Maybe I should shower first.”

“I’ll take you any way, including ripe. Especially ripe.”

What? My mouth fell open. “That doesn’t bother you?”

He took my ankle to untie the straps of my leather sandals. “Nah,” he said, removing each shoe. “Some other time, I’ll make up for it by scrubbing you clean with peppermint soap. Just breathing on your pussy will make it scream.”

“Cristiano—”

“Don’t pretend you’re scandalized.” He slid my ass to the edge of the table. “Now, put your feet up and bare yourself to me.”

I stared at him for a moment. I wasn’t pretending. I’d truly never been in the presence of someone like him. The most Diego had ever demanded of me was a kiss. And what had I thought back then? That Diego and I would unleash our passion when the time was right?

It didn’t work that way. Heat had been smoldering between Cristiano and me since the start, and each time we struck against each other like flint, we came dangerously close to setting fire to everything around us.

I lay back and lifted my heels to the table. As if he hadn’t just affectionately removed my shoes, he tore a hole clean through the crotch of my leggings.

“What—”

“I’ll buy you new ones.” He kept his eyes on my face as he slid a finger under the fabric of my thong, his knuckle grazing me. Goose bumps exploded over my skin. He snapped the sliver against my clit, and I gasped at the sting. “That’s for arguing,” he said, “but don’t worry—I’m about to make it better.”

I bit my bottom lip, not bothering to hide my excitement. “What if someone sees?”

“They won’t, I promise you that.” He pulled up a chair like he was sitting down to a meal, then spread my legs and pushed his face between them. With the thong between his teeth, he let it snap against me again.