We both watched his length disappear in and out of me.

“Christian . . . no condom,” I breathed. “Again.”

“I’ll pull out.”

“I think that’s how my cousin got pregnant with three of her kids.”

That should have been enough to scare both of us, but, with heavy breaths, we only continued to watch him fuck me.

“I’m clean,” he rasped.

“I’m not worried. I’m sure your body temperature is too cold for any STDs to survive.”

His eyes came up to mine and narrowed. “It sounds to me like I’ve worked you in, malyshka.” He punctuated that sentence with a violent thrust that tore a gasp from my throat.

He lifted me off the counter, pressed me against the wall, and fucked me deep and hard. Each thrust sent a wave of heat curling and searing through me. We were chest-to-chest, his hand on my throat, my legs wrapped around him. We still had our clothes on, yet every point of contact was so hot, so maddening, I’d never felt closer to anyone.

He kissed me only twice, both short and distracted, but each time, something warm unraveled in my chest, pooling in my extremities like melted butter.

The orgasm hit me hard, shooting stars between my eyes and knocking the breath from my lungs. I tightened a fist in his hair, lightly biting down where his shoulder met his neck.

With a rough noise, he pulled out and came all over my thigh.

It wasn’t romantic in the least, but something about seeing him come undone brought out a tender, grateful part of me. With my legs still wrapped around him, I placed a kiss on his neck, soaking up his smell. He rested his hands on the wall on either side of me, his breathing hard, while I kissed his jawline, his cheeks, his lips.

“If I knew I only had to fuck you to see how sweet you could actually be, I’d have done it a lot sooner.”

Warmth ran to my face. And I knew he saw the blush when he ran a finger across my cheek.

“Moya zvezdochka.” He murmured the two rough words against my lips.

I stilled.

Those words . . . I’d heard them before. More than once.

And then the memory dropped into place.

“You,” I breathed, eyes wide. “You were at my wedding.”

20 years old

“You look beautiful, stellina. Stop fretting.”

I dropped my hands from the pins in my hair and turned away from my white-clad reflection in the mirror. “I just don’t want him to be disappointed.”

Mamma snorted. “He wouldn’t deserve you in a gunny sack.”

I sighed.

She cupped my cheek, her eyes soft. “I did not wish this for you.”

“Mamma, stop.” I pulled away from her and headed to the window. I didn’t want today—my wedding day—to be clouded in pity. For better or for worse, this was the life I’d been given, and I was going to make the best of it.

“Mi dispiace, stellina. We only have a few more minutes . . . Do we need to have the sex talk?”

I gave her a look.

She chuckled. “I wasn’t sure what you’ve learned from Signora Tiller.”

My private tutors were old enough to be WWII survivors and stuffy enough to be virgins themselves.

I swallowed and turned back to gaze out the window with a dark secret pressing in on my chest. I’d been molested for four years of my childhood and my mother never knew. Even at eight years old, I’d known if she found out she’d try to take me and run again. I’d been terrified the next time she tried Papà would actually kill her. Now, at twenty, I couldn’t force that secret past my lips knowing how much it would upset her.

“Ricorda, mia figlia, you do not have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. You are young—Antonio will understand.”

“I’m not afraid of the marriage bed, Mamma. I’m not even nervous about it. I just want him to . . . like me.” Love me.

“Oh, stellina . . .”

My chest tightened. “Please don’t ruin this for me, Mamma.”

“You are right, I’m sorry. I think it’s time to go downstairs. Are you ready?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

My first wedding was a lavish affair, with white lilies and tulle bows as far as the eye could see. The guests cheered and threw rice at the bride and groom as we left the church.

The day was beautiful.

The mood perfect.

I was gorgeous—everyone had said so.

I was floating on a cloud of optimism. Right up until I’d gotten lost at the reception in my husband’s ten-thousand-square-foot home while trying to find the bathroom. Then that optimism shattered like glass at my feet. And all because of a crack in a door that should have been closed.

Her name was Marie Ricci.

Mid-twenties, girl-next-door looks, slightly cheap.

I knew of her only because she’d played the part of a waitress in a B-horror movie I’d had the misfortune of seeing.

Everything about her was ordinary, but it was impossible to overlook her while she kneeled in front of my husband’s office chair, his hand in her dark hair.

That was the moment the first whispers of bitterness crept into my jaded soul—watching my brand-new husband get blown by an Italian actress on our wedding day.

I drifted down the hall, my dress suddenly feeling fifty pounds heavier. I thought my husband had poor taste in sexual partners, but at least he had an amazing library. And an impressive collection of scotch. I had never had more than a sip of alcohol in my life—Papà had forbidden it—but I knew the bottle I was currently pulling the cork out of was more expensive than most people’s cars. Papà liked his liquor from so high a shelf God must have put it there Himself.

I took a drink straight from the bottle.

Sometime later, I was sitting cross-legged at the piano, playing a nursery rhyme I remembered from the lessons I’d taken as a child. I went to lift the half-empty bottle to my lips, and instead, ended up falling backward off the bench and smacking my head on the floor. Liquor spread across the oriental rug.

“Ow,” I murmured, but when I realized I’d drunk so much it didn’t hurt at all, I laughed.

“And they say marriage is bliss,” a deep voice drawled.

My eyes shot to the sound. The whole room spun at the movement, and I could only see a large, black-suited silhouette in the doorway.

I rolled my eyes and looked away from the stranger to watch the fan spin around and around. “You sound like an . . . impressionist.”

That amused him. “I think you mean, pessimist.”

I continued to lie in a tangle of sequins, bows, and white gossamer.

“Does your husband know what’s become of his pretty teenage wife?”

I shot him a glare and then blinked because there were suddenly two of him swaying back and forth. “I’m twenty, thank you very much.”

“Ah, my mistake.”

“And to answer your question—even though it’s none of your business—I’m sure he’s still too busy getting blown in his office to notice where I am.”

“So, she’s already jaded,” he drawled.

“I hope he reciprocates,” I said, slightly slurring my words. “I’m not sure what the protocol is, but I do believe men should reciprocate. Would you reciprocate?”