Page 48 of Lethal Saint

“That’s my girl,” I groaned, releasing her breast and very pleased with the red mark I’d created. I’d tend to this mark over the next few days until it made a tender bruise she could look at and remember how loved she was. “Come all over my cock, get me all slippery so I can fill that needy little pussy.”

“Damien,” she whined, fingernails digging into my arm. Her back arched, tendons in her neck strained as pleasure wracked her.

Bracing myself on one arm, I covered her hand on my cock, encouraging her to press harder, move faster. The heat and scent of her was dizzying. She released her chokehold on my arm to throw her forearm over her face, a series of dangerous whines and whimpers leaving her. I didn’t stop until her eyes glazed and face slackened.

She was so relaxed, she only softly moaned when I slid two fingers inside the scorching heat of her, my cock going fuckingwildat the feel of her, the thought of being inside her, surrounded by her. She was so damn wet, her arousal like liquid silk on my fingers when I eased a third into her, kissing the mark I’d left on her chest, silent praise for bearing the discomfort.

“I want you to hold onto me, okay Vasya? Scratch me, bruise me, pull my hair, whatever you need to do while your pussy adjusts to the feel of me inside you.”

Her eyes found mine, the glint of fear there kicking me in my stomach even if it was drowned out by her satisfaction. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” I promised, kissing her nipple. “I’d be fucking honoured if you left marks on my body. I’ve left mine on yours.”

Her sharp, staccato gasp was less from surprise than a throb, through her needy pussy. She loved it, loved being marked by me. My stomach burst with butterflies when I saw the silent hunger on her face, the need formore.

“Okay,” she breathed.

“If you need me to slow or stop, tell me. If it doesn’t feel good for you, I have no fucking interest in continuing. I want you to love sex with me, so if there’s something you need, don’t keep it to yourself.”

“You’re very strange,” she told me quietly, her eyes bright.

A corner of my mouth hooked into a smile. “If it’s strange to want my wife to come over and over, I’m proud to be strange.”

Thick eyelashes swept her cheeks when she glanced down and then back up to my face. “I want you to come, too.”

“I’m dangerously close,” I told her, covering her body with mine to steal a kiss from her lips. “Every time my cock jumps in your hand, I’m imagining being inside you, your pussy gripping me, milking me when you climax.”

“You’re obsessed with making me come,” she laughed softly. That was seven laughs.

“Yes, I am,” I agreed unapologetically, caressing her thigh and wrapping it around my back, opening her wider to me. “Can you reach across and open the top drawer, Vasilisa? There’s a condom in there somewhere.”

I needed to buy more. A lot more. I was ravenous for her; once would never be enough.

She blinked at me before she did as I told her, searching until she found it. “You sound like…”

“Like what?” I pressed, missing the warmth of her hand on my cock. I gave myself a firm stroke, throttling the base.

“Like you’re not sure where it’d be. But don’t you use them often?”

“Why would I?” I asked, stroking up the sides of her body, intrigued by the shift in her tone. I shouldn’t have pushed her, should have freely offered her an answer, but there was a thrill in my belly, tightening my balls, and I was pretty sure it was jealousy in her voice.

“You know,” she huffed. “With other women.”

I smiled. Holy fuck, itwasjealousy.

“I’ve only been with one woman before you, and our relationship ended years ago.”

Her mouth popped open. “You haven’t had sex in years?”

“I haven’t,” I confirmed. “I don’t feel the need unless I develop a bond or attachment, like I have with you.”

Her eyes were round, fixed on me, the condom forgotten in her hand. “You’re attached to me.”

“Very.”

She smiled. “I’m attached to you too, Damien.”

I had no control over the growling breath I exhaled, or the fact my lips slammed into hers, moving before I could process my intentions. The kiss was vital; I’d die without strawberries filling my senses, her lips pressing to mine, hungry and starved.

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