Reluctant Bride

by Sam Crescent

  “Have you never wanted to marry and have children?” he asked.

  “I can’t see myself pregnant and tied to a man.”

  She sounded callous, but she had to shield herself from his probing questions.

  “But you are tied to a man. You’re tied to me.”

  “Ah … but I’m not pregnant.”

  Lucas smiled. “Not yet.”

  They had reached the seclusion of the sand dunes, and Lucas spun her around until she faced him. His hands reached out and cupped her face. The scent of his aftershave teased her nostrils and her pulse quickened.

  With passion in his eyes, Lucas bent his head toward hers and their lips touched. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. His searching, hungry mouth was brutal, and the urgency of his need was clear.

  “Your mine, Amal. And I’m not letting you wriggle out of our marriage.”

  When Lucas’s fingers pushed her shawl aside and released the buttons on her blouse to expose the swell of her breasts, she didn’t resist. There was no point. Lucas had only one thing on his mind, and that was to take her and make her his.

  In the months before his illness, when they had shared her bed and made love into the early hours of the morning, she had come to know his rhythm. Lucas had always found it difficult to keep his hands off her. She only had to touch him and his shaft grew hard. But once he’d claimed her and had plowed his thick rod into her pussy, his lovemaking had always centered on her needs and her release until she climaxed.

  No one was around to witness their lovemaking, and when he rolled his hand across her breasts and his fingers pinched the hard, swollen buds of her nipples, she tugged hurriedly on the belt looped through his denims, hoping to release him.

  “Are you strong enough?” she asked. “You’re supposed to be recovering … slowly.”

  “Then we’ll take it slow.” He grinned.

  Her shawl was removed from her shoulders and spread on the sand like a blanket. And one by one, as his hands explored, her clothes were eased from her body until she stood before him, naked.

  He caught her around the waist and pulled her to him. His lips found hers, and as their tongues delved and probed the hidden depths of their open mouths, Amal let out a groan of desire.

  “Lie down.” Lucas pointed to the shawl and the mound of discarded clothing.

  Their needs were the same. He wanted her, and she wanted him.

  Amal took a steadying breath and did as asked.

  Lucas towered above her. His lean silhouette was framed by the redness of the setting sun on the skyline, and when their eyes locked, and she saw pure, raw lust shining in his, she knew there would be no foreplay. Just harsh penetration until he had reached his goal.

  Lucas tugged on his zipper, and with impatient force, his shaft sprang free.

  “Now spread,” he said.

  She knew what he wanted. It was what he always wanted … to taste her flowing juices.

  Amal could no longer deny him access. She opened her legs. Desire burned in her core, and with her heart pounding in her chest, she felt the sticky wetness grow between her legs.

  Having stripped the clothes from his body, Lucas dropped to his knees. He was between her legs, and with her thighs spread wide, he lowered his head to the crevice between her inner thighs and teased the folds of her labia with his mouth. His tongue probed, and when he kissed and sucked on the hard nub of her clit, waves of pleasure coursed through her body.

  “I can’t wait,” he said.

  “Then don’t.”

  “I want to kiss you and taste you and make you come, but I have to have you … now.”

  His hands gripped hers and forced them above her head. She was pinned beneath him, and she knew he was going to use her body ruthlessly. She didn’t care what he did or how he did it. She needed to feel him buried inside her as she came.

  The blood pounded in her veins like never before.

  She was ready for his attack and lifted her hips to make his entrance easier. The folds of her labia were pushed apart, and she felt his fingers flick against the nub of her swollen clit. Taking his erect shaft in hand, he placed it at the entrance of her cavern, and as his rod pressed against her tight opening, he lunged.

  With one forceful thrust, she was impaled on his throbbing shaft, and he was buried to the hilt in the warmth of her welcoming pussy.

  Lucas gave a low moan of satisfaction. “Are you all right?” he asked. His breathing was ragged. “It’s been a while since we…”

  Her back was pressed into the unyielding hardness of the sand and his weight held her down. Then, with slow, gradual movements, his shaft moved in and out, and her juices began to flow. In the distance was the sound of the waves rolling in from the sea and crashing on the shore. And as they moved in time with the ebb and flow of the waters, she felt as one with him.

  Releasing her hands, he cupped her breasts, and when his mouth locked on her swollen nipples, a sharp pulse of desire hit her core. She could feel the wetness between her legs growing as their passion mounted, and she wanted more.

  With impatience, Amal ground her pelvis against his as he plowed gently in and out of her. He had her squirming beneath him, and she was in need of release.

  They were both coming, reaching their climax. And when her legs wrapped around his waist, and she held him pressed to her, her juices flowed, and he discharged his load with a sigh of contentment.

  Exhausted, yet satiated from their lovemaking, they held one another until the spasms of their orgasms subsided.

  Cradling her in his arms, Lucas held her close. She felt his warmth and tenderness, but was uncertain if there was love.

  “Well, Mrs. Martinez. I think it’s about time we started our honeymoon, properly, don’t you?” he said.

  Naked beneath the stars, she felt vulnerable. There were things she was unsure of and things she had to know. The unknown couldn’t be put off any longer.

  Amal reached up and ran her fingers through his mass of silver hair. “Do you want to stay married? I mean … it’s not as if we planned to tie ourselves to one another. And if you hadn’t become ill…”

  Lucas smoothed the frown from her brow. “Amal, be honest with me. Are the children a problem?” he asked.

  The children weren’t the problem, they never had been. “No. I love having them here with us. And your mother, too.”

  “But they’re not your responsibility,” he said.

  “No … they aren’t. They are our responsibility. Lucas, the moment I said ‘I do,’ I took on your worries.”

  Lucas placed a hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. She felt the gentle kiss of his lips on hers.

  “And my age? Can you bear to live with me when I’m old and—”

  She laughed and nestled close. “I think everything that’s important is in working order. Don’t you? I mean, you’ve got your faculties, you’ve got your health, and although Mr. Martinez might be a little sleepy at the moment…”

  She slipped one of her legs between his and brushed her hand against his limp shaft. He kissed her, long and hard.

  “Amal, will you marry me? I know you’re my reluctant bride, but this time, will you marry me, not because I’m forcing you to, but because … I love you.”

  Amal sighed. They were words she had longed to hear.

  “With all the love in the world, my darling. I would love to be your willing bride.”

  The End

  Explore more books by Arabella Sheen

  ROMAN’S PRIZE

  Winter Sloane

  Copyright © 2021

  Chapter One

  The ends of the curling iron singed the tips of Evelina Russo’s fingers, making her curse. She set the iron down. Taking deep breaths, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. A stranger in a white wedding gown peered back at her—pale, unrecognizable, and frightened. Deep in the marrow of her bones, Eve always knew this day would come.

  The women in the Russo family were no better than pawn
s to be bartered or sold by pricks like her father. She tried to control her breathing, but nothing helped calm the bundle of nerves steadily growing in the pit of her stomach.

  “What are you doing? Your hair’s only half done,” her mother chided.

  Maria Russo snatched the curling iron Eve had left on the table. Before Eve could get a word out, her mother gathered a chunk of her dark-brown hair. Maria began curling the edges, saying nothing for a few moments.

  Eve rubbed the reddened tips of her burnt fingers. Pressing them to her nose, she smelled the faint tinge of copper. Smelling blood only worsened her nausea.

  “All the women in the Russo family go through this difficult day. Your father and I were strangers who only met on the day of our wedding. I was scared and he was, too. In the end, we made our marriage work.” Her mother met her dark gaze through the mirror. “The Russo Family is where it is today because your father and I are a team.”

  Her mother had seldom been nice to her, so Eve wondered why she’d bother offering her words of comfort. Her sister Lucille had been her mother’s favorite. Then again, Lucille was gone, blown to pieces in a car bomb that left Lucille, her husband, and their three-year-old son dead. Eve swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She hadn’t gotten along with her sister either, but at Lucille’s funeral, Eve had shed silent tears.

  What happened to Lucille six months ago was a reminder her life would never be safe. Her father’s enemies would always choose to target those closest to Franco Russo. Eve’s marriage to Roman De Luca was just a temporary glue to her family’s problems.

  “There. Smile, Evelina. You’re the star of the show today,” her mother said.

  Only her mother ever used her full name. If Eve had friends, she’d persuade them to call her by her nickname, except she didn’t. Growing up as the daughter of Franco Russo made it hard to form lasting connections with anyone. Even at school, Eve had always been the aloof mafia princess, untouchable, irrefutable. An outcast.

  Knowing her mother wouldn’t leave her alone, Eve forced herself to smile until her cheeks hurt. Her mother gave a satisfied nod.

  “I know we’ve never seen each other eye-to-eye. Believe it or not, Evelina, but I’m on your side. I’m your mother. You will always have an ally in me.”

  Those unexpected words warmed her heart and bolstered her courage.

  “Thanks, Mom. I needed to hear that.”

  Her mother nodded.

  “Bandage those blisters. They look unseemly,” her mother said. After Eve did as she asked, her mother left the temporary dressing room.

  Finally, some peace and quiet. In here, it was quiet, and Eve had always thrived in silence. All her life, she’d been a shadow, the imperfect copy of her flawless sister. Lucille had been the blonde, slender and tall. Eve was her exact opposite—dark-haired, dark-eyed. Short and curvy. Lucille had been the obedient daughter while Eve always caused problems.

  A knock on the door made her jump. Her cousin, Mario, opened the door. “Eve, it’s time.”

  “I’ll be right there,” she reassured him. Mario didn’t close the door behind him. His shadow cast a long line across the room. Eve snorted. She wouldn’t be too surprised if her father sent Mario here to make sure Eve would see through her marriage.

  Eve ran her bandaged fingers through her hair. She could imagine the crowd awaiting her in church. The left pews would house members of the Russo Family and their allies, and the right? Roman De Luca’s kin.

  Roman.

  Eve whispered his name under her lips and shuddered. She might’ve been kept out of the family business, but everyone in this city knew who he was. The Don of the De Luca Family. He was twenty years older than her. A monster in human skin who trampled upon hundreds of corpses to get to where he was.

  Goosebumps broke over the bare skin of her arms. All Eve knew were rumors. Sooner or later, she’d find out if those rumors had any shred of truth to them. She wasn’t Lucille. Eve wouldn’t just roll over for her new husband.

  Mario began to tap impatiently outside. Eve couldn’t linger here any longer. Sooner or later, she needed to face the music. To give herself to a complete stranger under the eyes of God.

  “I’m ready.” Her voice sounded hoarse. Funny.

  Mario offered his arm to her, but Eve declined. He shrugged, as if to say suit yourself. In no time at all, Eve stood in front of the double doors that would lead to the inside of the church. Bridesmaids chittered around her, making small talk. Eve was too distracted, too deep inside her own head to join in. After all, none of them were getting married to a monster today. She was. Mario opened the door. Her retinue marched on. Eve kept her shoulders straight, her eyes on the altar.

  More strangers. Eve didn’t lift a single finger for this wedding. The bridesmaids and groomsmen had been selected for her by her parents and Roman’s right-hand-hand man Silvio. The same went for the decorations, the guests, the flowers and cake. During the entire proceedings, Eve felt like a detached outsider looking in.

  Thank God for small mercies. Eve didn’t care about the small stuff. Sure, when she’d been little, she thought about what her wedding would be like. This was supposed to be the happiest day in her life and never before had she felt so miserable.

  It was her turn to walk. She was vaguely aware of her father standing next to her, putting his arm over hers. Her limbs felt stiff and cold. A squeeze on her arm made her move.

  “You look beautiful, Eve,” her father murmured.

  He beamed at her, the whites of his teeth showing. Franco Russo had never smiled at her like that before. Did he wear this caricature grin at Lucille’s wedding, too? Eve couldn’t remember. He led her down the aisle like a proud horse breeder showing off his latest wares.

  Eve stumbled on her heels. She wasn’t used to wearing these monstrosities. In her daily life, she preferred sneakers and flats. A stray thought struck her. Would her husband let her keep a little studio in his home, or would he throw away her canvases and paints? Art was the only medium she could vent her suppressed emotions, and Eve harbored plenty of quiet anger. Ever since she was old enough to talk and walk, she’d been trained to be obedient. To be the perfect doll her parents wanted.

  She and her father were getting closer to the altar. Father Gabriel stood there, legs apart, face stoic. He’d been the same priest who saw Lucille and her through first communion and confirmation. She wondered what he thought of this entire little show, for it was that. A way to flaunt to her father’s and Roman’s enemies that their two warring families were allies now.

  Finally, Eve gazed upon her husband-to-be. Roman De Luca towered over her like a titan. He had to be six-foot-four to her tiny five-foot-two height. He wore his hair military short, gray strands mixed in with black. Intense blue-gray eyes captured hers. Cold. Unreadable. Merciless. No tux for him. Roman wore a pressed charcoal-gray suit that fitted his large and muscled frame like a second skin. No doubt it cost thousands. Just like the uncomfortable dress she wore. Franco only wanted the best for his remaining daughter.

  Sweat beaded her back. The goosebumps hadn’t left her arms and her pulse spiked. She felt like an innocent lamb being offered to the hungry wolf. Eve wasn’t prey. Her new husband would learn that sooner or later. She refused to be intimidated by him.

  Her father left her side, leaving her alone with him. Not alone. Father Gabriel stood in front of them. A crowd watched them and yet never before had Eve felt so isolated. Father Gabriel started to speak, but she barely heard the words.

  Eve held on to the bouquet of roses so hard, the thorns pricked her finger. Pain was good. A reminder she didn’t want to appear weak to her new husband. Lucille had let her husband push her around. Lucille had been strong in her own way, but she eventually bent to his wishes, his ambition. Where was her dear sister now? Buried in the earth along with the rest of their family. Her mother claimed she and her father made things work, but who was she fooling? Eve had been trapped in the same house. She’d seen the numerous tim
es her mother bent over backward for her old man.

  Eve swore she’d never let Roman do the same to her. He might be her husband on paper, but she’d never cave or submit to him. She held his gaze, even though her heart was in her throat. A daring move, but she didn’t know what else to do. Eve wanted him to know she wouldn’t be a pushover. If Roman was looking for a meek and obedient wife, he had another thing coming.

  Then the fucker did the unexpected. He tilted his lips upward and smiled at her. Her heart thundered. For a fraction of a second, his mask slipped away, and she caught a glimpse of the beast underneath. Wild and vicious. Dominant and controlling. Eve sucked in a breath.

  What kind of mess had her father gotten her into?

  Chapter Two

  Roman De Luca thought he’d be getting a model wife. A pretty little wallflower who would bear his children, who would play her role as his obedient beloved to the hilt. When he zeroed in on Evelina Russo walking down the aisle, it was her delicious curves that drew him first, then her face. Pale. Fragile. His first thought had been this—that a beast like him could easily crush this fragile rose underfoot without a second thought. Then she glared at him. The fire in her dark eyes lit and excited his soul.

  So, Franco’s youngest daughter had steel in her spine. Who knew? Franco had said little about her, only that she was a virgin and she wouldn’t be difficult to handle. He doubted Franco’s first claim. After all, Eve was twenty-two years old. Franco’s second statement made him realize Franco didn’t know his daughter at all.

  Roman curved his lips upward. Was he smiling? He hadn’t done that in a long time. For a split second, hesitation shadowed her pretty features, then it was gone. She hurried over her vows, as if she wanted to get this over with. Roman didn’t give a fuck. He said his own in a steady, almost monotone voice.

  Excitement made him rip away the bouquet of roses she’d been clutching excessively. Frowning, he gripped her small wrist, examining the little cuts on her fingers. The tips of her other hand had plasters, too. Did she have a little accident before the ceremony? He lifted her injured hand to his mouth and licked away the blood. He did it slowly, like a cat that got its cream, and gauged her reaction.