Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Speeches. Toasts. Bouquet tosses.

No one warned me getting married was like running a marathon. Totally an endurance sport.

By the time people begin staggering into rides to take their champagne-marinated selves home or fumbling their way into the rooms we reserved upstairs, I’m ready to take my shoes off and collapse.

So when Roland glances around and takes my hand to drag me into the hall, I’m thrilled to follow.

In a quiet alcove off the reception room, I tumble against him, the two of us tucked against the wall.

“Please tell me we have a room upstairs. I need to get these shoes off now.”

“Agreed. First the shoes, then everything else.” With a roguish grin as my only warning, Roland throws his arm around my waist, hefts me up, and tosses me over his shoulder.

I knew it.

I knew he’d go full Neanderthal on our wedding night.

My stomach drops out. I’m torn between shock and messy laughter. I yelp, giggling and swatting at his back.

“Roland! Let me down right now!”

“Sorry, not sorry. Also not happening, beautiful. I’m abducting my bride in the best old wedding tradition.” He ignores my playful swats and marches us through the door. “Besides, if we don’t hurry, we’ll be late for our flight. I may own the jet, but air traffic control does get impatient and the pilots awfully pissed if we miss our departure window.”

I go still, craning my neck to look over my shoulder at the back of his head.

“Flight? Huh?”

“Did you forget? You let me plan the honeymoon while you took care of the wedding,” he says with a diabolical smirk.

“Oh, right. Oh, no. What outlandish place are you dragging us away to?”

Roland bursts into laughter, so deep it shakes my entire body.

“The last two trips I planned were Austin and New Orleans. When have I ever dragged you away to Hades, my blushing bride?”

“It’s not where we go. It’s what happens when we travel together...”

He’s still walking, carrying me around like it’s nothing.

I’ve kinda given up, just dangling here and enjoying the view from the waist down.

“I promise. No stalking tabloid pricks this time. Nothing but you, me, and lots of privacy. All tucked away in our very own penthouse with a breathtaking view of Milan.”

“Penthouse? Milan?” My eyes widen. “I’ve always wanted to see Milan...”

“I know. I’ve caught you bending pages in the travel magazines every time there’s a feature on Italy.”

For a solid minute, I’m speechless.

It’s always the little things with this man.

The way he notices so much, the way he remembers, the way he cares.

Sometimes, it overwhelms me, but tonight it splits my heart in half and kisses it back together.

“Hey,” I murmur. “Lift me up.”

Roland easily slings me from over his shoulder and scoops me against his chest in a damsel-in-distress carry.

Fine.

It lets me cup my hand against his cheek, feeling the his freshly trimmed beard scruff against my palm. I lean in to press my lips to his.

“How private is that jet?” I whisper. “I hope the cockpit door is soundproof.”

Roland’s stride slows, his lips hot against mine with every murmur. “Are you suggesting we join the mile high club, wife?”

“I’m suggesting we start our honeymoon at thirty thousand feet.” I twine my arms around Roland’s neck, tracing my mouth along his jaw. “Now take me to the airport and quit teasing. Just let me screw my husband’s brains out his ears for the very first time.”

“Damn, do I love how you think. About as much as I love you under me,” he growls back, a hot glimmer in his eye that’s part warning.

I smile into our next kiss, wondering if we’ll spend all of our energy in midair before we’re halfway to Milan.

* * *

Oops.

Somehow I forgot we’re insatiable.

If I had any worries our batteries would run low for sexy time, they’re obliterated by our second morning in Milan.

I’m hanging off a gorgeous balcony with Roland’s hands on my breasts, his fingers pinching my nipples, a low voice growling in my ear, “Callie, fucking go. Day doesn’t start until sunrise, coffee, and you.”

You.

That’s what he calls the way I’ve gone off since the minute he tore off my wedding dress.

The way I’ve come on every magnificent, feral inch of him since the plane.

I couldn’t even tell you how many times we’ve done it since we touched down on another continent. I can barely remember where.

The bed that’s decked out with so many pillows it could shame a cloudy sky. We started there and must’ve dented the mattress half a dozen times.

The walk-in waterfall shower, so huge he’s able to hoist me up and carry me around inside it, slamming me against every wall as he savages me.

The lofty cliff overlooking Lake Como, where we stopped for a sprawling picnic and wine that’s older than I am, before he decided I was the star of his menu. His tongue delved into me so long and so deep I passed out.