Odd-looking? How could anyone call her odd-looking? She’s positively fucking ethereal. Her long, pin-straight hair is whiter than the dress she’s wearing, and even from here, I can see that her eyes are so blue they’re almost violet. Her skin is translucent and shimmering in the sunlight.
Someone walks down the aisle with her, shading her eyes from the sun with a small umbrella that matches the delicate lace that covers her entire dress. And that dress. My God, that dress. It hugs every curve of her body, leaving very little to the imagination as her breasts struggle to remain held in by the neckline.
I recover, taking a few quick steps to catch up with where she is on her side. I wonder if she likes what she sees in me. I nervously pull at my jacket, making sure it’s straight. I regret running my hands through my hair, and I hope it still looks nice for her. I want her to like me.
We finally meet in the middle, and I hold out my hand for hers. Her eyes rake over my face, squinting in the sun like she’s trying to take in every pore on my skin. She doesn’t look all that impressed, and I can feel my stomach drop. But I smile at her when she reluctantly places her small hand in my own.
The difference in our coloring is shocking. I’m tan from my time in Greece, and my skin almost looks brown against hers. I can hear her breathing, short little bursts, and I wonder if her dress is too tight. Do we need to loosen it? Is she going to pass out at the altar because she can’t breathe properly?
She gives me a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes before we turn, and I help her up the few steps to the priest. The lady holding the umbrella follows us and continues to stand next to her to shield her delicate skin from the sun.
It makes me irrationally jealous. I want to rip the umbrella from her grip. I should be the one to protect her.
I take a few deep breaths and try to turn my attention to what the priest is saying. But all I can focus on are the shallow breaths of the woman next to me and the way her hand grips my own every so often.
CHAPTER TWO
Her name is Aurora.
Aurora Catarina Rosa Russo.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard a name so beautiful. I can’t wait to hear it roll off my tongue over and over again as I taste her. My dick is rock hard as I stand here, trying to finish out this long-ass ceremony.
When he finally gets to the point of us saying our I do’s, I’m dizzy from the loss of blood to my brain. I should be embarrassed that anyone in the front few rows can probably see I’m sporting a hard-on, but my brain won’t let me focus on anything but Aurora.
The priest asks us at the same time, and we time our answers perfectly.
“You may kiss the bride,” he tells me, a small smile gracing his lips as he nods to me.
I give my full attention to Aurora, and when she sees me, her lips part on a quiet gasp. I take that opportunity to lean in and taste her for the first time, my tongue just barely sweeping inside. Her lips are soft and warm, and they move against mine hesitantly, like she isn’t quite sure what she’s doing.
The women are always supposed to be kept virgins, the tradition dating back too far to remember. But these days, no one in our generation cares anymore. We all sleep around and just fake the blood ceremony later on that night. But the way she’s kissing me…it makes me wonder.
What if I’m the first to touch her? Has she stayed a virgin this entire time? I want to explore and see how she responds. I want to let my hands wander over her body until I’m cupping the back of her neck and pulling her entire body flush with mine. But we have an audience, and it’s our first kiss.
So I break it, and I’m in love with the way it’s brought the color out in her lips. They stand out beautifully, and I want to go in again…maybe bite them a bit. I want to see what other places on her body I can bring color to.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she says, her voice small and quiet. Her English is good, and the Italian accent makes my cock twitch. This woman is going to be the death of me.
She clears her throat and backs away just slightly. I hate it. I want her to want to stay close to me at all times. I don’t like this distance she’s put between us.
“È un piacere conoscerti, mia piccola luna.” It’s nice to meet you, my little moon.
Her cheeks bloom pink, and I pull my eyes from it to take the umbrella into my own hand.
“May I?” I ask Aurora.
She nods and places her hand on her friend, letting her know it’s okay that I take over. I carefully make sure the shade stays over her delicate skin as we walk down the middle aisle, symbolizing we’ve officially come together. Our families cheer and throw flower petals at us as we make our way out of the crowd.
“You speak English well?” I ask her once we’re inside and alone.
“I was taught since I was a child. My father told me it would be an imperative language to know if I wanted to make it in life.” She does a cute little eye roll, and it brings a smile to my lips.
“You are beautiful,” I tell her, lifting a hand to her face and running the pad of my thumb over her cheek. “Incredibilmente bella.”
“You are very handsome,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. She almost refuses to look at me, and I can’t tell if it’s because she doesn’t like me or if she’s embarrassed. Maybe I’m being too forward and it’s scaring her or pushing her away.
“Immagini! Immagini!” Pictures! Pictures!
One of Aurora’s bridesmaids rushes inside, dragging the entire wedding party behind her, breaking up our little moment. I have to check my rage, which is new for me. I’m never the one that has to worry about my anger. That’s all Greg. But right now, I could happily go on a rampage, kicking them all out and forcing them to give us time alone.
I couldn’t give two shits about pictures, dancing, or the cutting of the cake. I want her alone, naked and writhing beneath me…and fuck, I’m hard again. I clear my throat and take a step away, giving them room to hug and congratulate her.
My groomsmen come in behind them, slapping me hard on the shoulders and pulling me in for rough hugs. When we go home, we’ll have another celebration with my friends there, but the initial ceremony is mafia families only. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I’m surrounded by family I haven’t seen in months—some years. But we all pretend to be close. One big happy fucking family.
Eventually, we are pushed back together, and I hold on to her like my life depends on it. I don’t want the sea of people to pull us apart. The photographer is there, and she keeps us inside, hidden from the sun, and takes our picture in different spots throughout the marbled mansion.
The entire time, her little hand is clasped tightly onto anything she can get ahold of, like she’s afraid she won’t be able to stand unless she’s holding on to me. My chest swells with pride, and I never let go of her either. Even though she can still barely stand to look at me, her body language seems to say she likes me.
“Where’s the kitchen?” I ask her when we are finally done with the photographer. Her eyebrows pull together in confusion, but I wait for her to answer, not letting on as to why I want to know.
“This way,” she says hesitantly, still holding on to my hand as she leads me through the hallways. “I assume you mean the big kitchen?”