Lorenzo Bianchi || Your Official Husband (Wedding ALT)

The Venetian Room at the Fairmont San Francisco had been transformed into something out of a dream. Thousands of white roses and cascading orchids lined the aisles, their fragrance weaving through the air like a whispered promise. Crystal chandeliers bathed everything in warm, golden light, and the cream silk draped from the ceilings caught it softly, making the entire room glow.

Lorenzo stood at the altar, perfectly still.

His bespoke Kiton suit—midnight blue, hand-stitched by artisans in Naples—fit him like armor. The silk pocket square matched the pale blush of the roses. His cufflinks, vintage platinum set with small onyx stones, caught the light each time his fingers moved. He'd adjusted them twice already. He never adjusted his cufflinks. Not twice. Not in front of three hundred guests that included politicians, international businessmen, and men whose last names carried weight in places the FBI couldn't reach.

But he wasn't thinking about them.

The string quartet shifted into a new melody, and the double doors at the far end of the room opened. Lorenzo's breath stopped.

There they were.

His spouse. His.

The world narrowed to a single point—them, framed in that archway, wrapped in ivory silk that seemed to flow like water over their form. The fabric caught the light with each step they took, and Lorenzo's hands curled into loose fists at his sides to keep from reaching out.

Control yourself.

He couldn't.

Six months ago, he had stood in their cramped apartment, furious, calculating how to dismantle this legal disaster they'd accidentally created. He had looked at them—disheveled, hungover, utterly unafraid of him—and felt something crack in the foundation of his carefully built life.

Now, watching them walk toward him, he understood that the crack had never been a weakness. It had been a door.

They were halfway down the aisle now. Their eyes were on his, and Lorenzo felt the weight of that gaze like a physical thing pressing against his chest. His heart—something he'd long considered just a muscle that kept him alive—was pounding so hard he was certain the man standing beside him as best man could hear it.

"Stai bene?" Marco murmured from the corner of his mouth.

Lorenzo didn't answer. Couldn't.

They were close now. Close enough that he could see the way the light played across their features, the slight flush on their cheeks, the way their hands held a small bouquet of white peonies—his mother's favorite flower, a detail they had remembered without being told.

How did I live forty-six years without knowing this person existed?

The thought was irrational. Sentimental. The kind of thinking he would have dismissed as weakness a year ago. Now, it felt like the only truth he'd ever known.

They reached the end of the aisle. Stopped just before him.

Lorenzo looked down at them, and for the first time in his adult life, his gray eyes were not sharp, not calculating, not guarded. They were simply open.

"Sei perfetto," he murmured, low enough that only they could hear. You're perfect. His hand extended toward them, palm up—an offering, an invitation, a vow before the officiant even opened his mouth.

"Vieni da me." Come to me.

The Grecian morning crept through the floor-to-ceiling windows of their private pavilion, painting the white marble floors in strokes of gold and amber. Beyond the translucent linens that billowed lazily in the coastal breeze, the Peloponnese coastline stretched endlessly—turquoise waters against rugged hills, olive groves catching the early light. The air carried salt and jasmine.

Lorenzo had been awake for twenty minutes.

He lay on his side, propped on one elbow, watching them sleep. The ivory sheets had slipped to their waist, exposing the curve of their shoulder, the faint marks he had left the night before—small purplish bruises along their collarbone, the delicate imprint of his teeth where their neck met their shoulder. His marks. His. The sight of them stirred something primal and satisfied in the deepest part of his chest.

His thumb traced the ridge of their hip beneath the sheet, slow, deliberate. possessive.

They stirred.

His large hand slid from their hip to the plane of their stomach, fingers splaying wide against warm skin, feeling the soft rise and fall of their breathing. His palm nearly spanned the entire width of their waist. He pulled them flush against him in one fluid motion, their back meeting the hard wall of his chest, his lips finding the curve of their neck.

"Mia," he breathed against their skin, the word half-prayer, half-claim. Mine.

His hand drifted lower. Slow. Always slow. Lorenzo never rushed this—not when he had spent decades mastering patience as a weapon, and certainly not now, when the reward was the sound of their breathing hitching beneath his touch. His fingers traced the inside of their thigh with agonizing tenderness, teasing, retreating, returning.

"You're already trembling," he observed against the shell of their ear, his voice a dark velvet murmur. "I haven't even touched you yet."

When his fingers finally found their destination, he didn't thrust in immediately. He pressed. Held. Felt them arch against him. Only then did he begin—slow, deliberate strokes designed to unravel, not to finish. His other hand came up to their chin, tilting their face toward him.

"Look at me," he commanded, his gray eyes locking onto theirs with an intensity that made the morning light seem dim. "I want to see you. Guardami."

He worked them with a surgeon's precision, reading every flutter of their lashes, every part of their lips, every shallow breath. The moment he felt them tense, felt the rhythm of their hips shift toward that desperate edge, he stopped.

"No." The word was soft but absolute. His fingers withdrew just enough to deny, his thumb resting idly against their inner thigh as if he had all the time in the world. Because he did. "Not yet. You don't come until I say you come."

He rolled them onto their back in one smooth motion, settling between their thighs with the commanding grace of a man who occupied every space he entered like he owned it. The sheet fell away completely. His body—broad, sculpted, scarred in places from a life lived outside the law—cast a shadow over them in the golden light.

He took his cock in hand, dragging the thick head along their entrance, coating his cock in their arousal without pushing inside. Once. Twice. Three times. Each pass deliberate, each drag of friction making his jaw tighten, the muscle in his neck cord with restraint.

"Tesoro mio," he groaned, the endearment fractured, almost pained. His forehead dropped to theirs, their breaths mingling. "Do you feel what you do to me? Senta questo?"

Only when he felt them shift beneath him, desperate, wanting, did he push his cock forward. Inch by devastating inch. He watched their face the entire time—watched their lips fall open, watched their eyes widen, watched the composure he so cherished seeing break apart like sea glass in his hands. He seated himself fully with a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest.

He didn't move.

He stayed buried, fully sheathed, his hips pinned to theirs, his large hands gripping their waist hard enough that fresh bruises would bloom by evening. His thumbs pressed into the hollows of their hip bones as he held them still, forcing them to feel every inch of cock—every thick, throbbing, impossible inch—without the relief of movement.

"Stay with me," he breathed, his gray eyes burning into theirs, the silver nearly swallowed by black. "Don't you dare close your eyes."

Then he began to move. Slow, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive point, his pace punishing in its deliberateness. The bed frame didn't creak—it was Amanzoe, built for discretion—but the sound of skin against skin, the wet heat of their union, the low growls that escaped Lorenzo's throat with each snap of his hips—those filled the sunlit room like a symphony of sin.

"Brava," he praised, his voice breaking into something raw and unguarded as he felt them clench around him. "Così brava, moglie mia. Taking me so well. Tutto mio."

His rhythm faltered—just slightly—as the pressure built at the base of his spine. His hand slid from their hip to their lower abdomen, pressing down firmly, a primal gesture that made his intent unmistakable.

"I'm going to fill you," he rasped against their mouth, not a question, not a request—a statement of fact delivered in the wrecked baritone of a man losing himself. "And you're going to take every drop. Capito?"

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