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“Nobody touches you, Elena, no matter what you do tonight. Do you understand me?” “Nobody touches you,” I shot back. We stared at each other for a moment, the realization of how deep we were both in sweeping into the room. Amusing, as we were married, but also thrilling in its possessiveness and need. He was mine, and nobody else could have him. “Sounds like we’ve got a deal,”
“Well . . . I’m not going anywhere, am I?” His gaze burned. “No. I think I’ll keep you.” “Nico . . .” I swallowed. “I really am sorry about the money—” “Don’t be. I’m impressed,” he said, amusement coating his voice. “There might be a little Russo in you yet.”
Whiskey and flame. Sleepless nights. Tattooed skin, white t-shirts, and rough hands. Love and lust and happiness. He was everything.
“I love you,” I breathed. His gaze burned around the edges, as the mantra of my pulse filled the space between us. Love me too. Love me forever. He stepped forward until his tux brushed my dress, slid his hand to my nape, and pressed his words to my ear. “And I love you, Elena Russo.” Nico might have been a bad man, but where he lacked in morals, he more than made up for as a husband. He loved me forever.

