Page 92 of Savage Lover

I never bring anybody down here. Even Dante barely ever comes in. Camille is the one person I know loves old cars the way I do—like they’re a living thing. I can tell she’s dying to look under the hood, to get her hands on every bit of the engine. Usually that would make me antsy and territorial, but I can’t help enjoying it, watching her run around as eager as a kid.

“Ohhh!” Camille groans, looking at all my tools. “You have everything in here. You did it, Nero. You finally made me jealous.”

Her eyes are bright as jet, and her cheeks are full of color. Her lips and cheeks look very red next to the black dress.

“I thought I made you jealous once before,” I say, in a low voice. “When you saw me with Bella.”

“I know you don’t like her,” Camille says, getting very still.

“But you were jealous anyway.”

I take a step toward her, and she takes one back, so she’s backed up against the hood of the Grand Sport. Her eyes flit down to my bare chest once more, remembering that I never did put on any clothes.

I run my hand through my hair, pushing it back from my face. I watch her eyes follow my hand, then run down my arm, down my bare torso, all the way to my boxer shorts. I know she can see the bulge of my cock through the thin material. Especially now that I’m starting to get aroused.

Camille licks her lips nervously.

I’m close enough that I can almost feel the warmth of her breath. The scent of gasoline is heavy in the air. It spikes my heart rate, though not as much as the scent of Camille herself.

In one motion, I wrap my hands around her waist and lift her up, so she’s sitting on the hood of the car. I’m standing between her thighs, her face exactly on level with mine. We’re eye to eye, nose to nose.

“I don’t ever want you to be jealous,” I tell her. “There’s nobody else, Camille. Nobody who ever made me feel like this.”

She looks into my eyes, lips trembling.

I don’t know if she believes me.

I’m a lot of things, but never a liar . . .

“We started something last night,” I say. “Are you ready to finish it?”

In answer, Camille grabs my face between her hands and kisses me.

It’s like she injected straight nitrous in my engine. My arousal cranks up a thousand percent in an instant. I shove her down on the hood, attacking her with my lips and hands. I’m licking her, kissing her, sucking her, all over her mouth and down her throat. I yank up the skirt of her dress and thrust my hand down the front of her panties, finding that hot, soaking wet pussy. I sink my fingers inside of her, making her moan into my mouth.

I hate that she has clothes on. I’m sick to death of getting bits and pieces of Camille, never all of her at once. The feel of her breasts in the dark, the taste of her pussy . . . it’s not even close to enough.

I grab her panties and I tear them apart, the fabric ripping like candy floss under my fevered fingers.

My cock has already escaped from my boxer shorts. It’s raging hard, demanding to be put inside of her. All I have to do is grip the base of it and point it in the right direction.

I know I should get a condom. I’ve always used one before. I don’t want kids, or any other nasty surprises.

But I want to be with Camille fully and intimately. I don’t want to fuck her with a barrier between us.

I want my first time to be with her. So I thrust inside of her, into that warmth and wetness that grips every millimeter of my bare cock. The sensation is ten times stronger than I expect. My knees almost give way beneath me, just from that single thrust.

I’m sunk eight inches deep into this woman who has invaded every fiber of my body, who is driving me absolutely fucking insane. I almost blow right then and there. It takes every last shred of control to hold back.

Once I regain control, I start fucking her hard and fast, desperately and wildly. I can’t seem to slow down. It’s like street racing—I’ve got pure adrenaline pounding through my veins. All I want is more, more, more.

I’ve never experienced anything like this. I’m used to giving in to wild emotion. Lust, violence, rage . . . this tops them all, and it’s not even close. The feeling of Camille’s burning hot pussy clamped around my cock, her fingernails clawing at my back, her teeth nipping at my lips, her tongue thrust deep in my mouth . . .

We’re trying to tear each other apart. But not out of hatred. Out of a desire to find that raw, vulnerable center again. Camille’s got more walls around her than a medieval castle. And I’m equally determined to keep people out—with a barrier of anger, carelessness, cruelty.

Yet we scaled each other’s walls. Because we recognized in each other what we know about ourselves. That we’re both hurting. Both alone. Both wanting someone who could understand.

I want Camille like I’ve never wanted anything in my life.

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