Page 15 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

Willow’s eyes darken, and she leans in to capture my lips in another searing kiss. Her hand finally finds what it’s been searching for, wrapping around me in a firm grip. I groan into her mouth, my hips bucking against her hand.

She breaks the kiss, her breath coming in short gasps. “Good,” she murmurs, her hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes, “Keep going.”

I can feel the tension building inside me, my body on the edge of release. But I force myself to concentrate, to come up with a word or phrase, anything in French.

“Je… je veux toi. Toujours.”

Willow’s eyes widen, and her hand stills for a moment. Then she’s back on me, her mouth devouring mine like she’s trying to consume me whole. Her hand resumes its rhythm, faster now, more urgent.

I can feel myself slipping, the pleasure overwhelming me. But I need to hear her voice, to know that I’m doing this right.

“Willow…” I gasp, my fingers digging into her hips, “Tell me… tell me I’m doing it right.”

She pulls back slightly, her breath warm against my skin. “You’re doing perfect,” she whispers, her voice trembling with desire, “Keep going.”

Her hand moves faster, her thumb brushing over the sensitive head of my cock. I can feel the pressure building, the pleasure coiling tight in my gut.

“Willow…” I moan, my voice breaking, “Je t’aime. Je t’aime tellement.”

Her eyes soften, and she leans in to kiss me, her lips tender against mine. “Je t’aime aussi,” she murmurs, her hand never stopping its relentless pace.

And then I’m there, my body shuddering with release as I spill into her hand. “Fuck,” I groan.

She kisses my temple, “Wrong language, mon amour.”

I collapse back onto the bed, my chest heaving. Willow lays down beside me, her head resting on my chest. My breaths slowly return to normal, as I pepper kisses over her forehead and cheeks. For a long time, we just lay there, wrapped up in each other. The warmth of her body against mine is comforting, and perfectly molded into mine.

“Vincent,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, “We’re going to Paris.”

I smile, my fingers lightly stroking her back. “I know,” I reply, my voice filled with affection, “But I don’t need Paris. I just need you.”

She looks up at me, her eyes soft and full of love. “Even if your French is terrible?”

I laugh, pulling her closer. “Especially if my French is terrible.”

She grins, resting her head on my chest again. “Don’t worry,” she murmurs, “I’ll keep helping you practice.”

I smile, my eyes closing as I relax into the warmth of her presence. “I’m counting on it.”

After a brief pause and our breath finally begins to settle, I turn my head to look at her, my fingers still tracing slow circles on her back.

“Willow,” I murmur, my voice low, like I’m testing the words before they leave my mouth. "I’ve been thinking about us, about everything. About how this feels.”

She lifts her head again, her golden eyes meeting mine, steady and calm. There’s no question in her gaze. She knows I’m about to say something important. The air between us shifts, the kind of quiet tension that comes before a big decision.

“I want you with me. For all of it,” I say, my voice tightening just a bit with the heaviness of it. “I want this to be more than just a few days in Paris. I want—” I slide a black velvet box from underneath my pillow, keeping my eyes on her. “I want you in my life. All of it, forever.” I slide the box open, and nestled against midnight black velvet sits my mother’s ring. The centerpiece is a flawless princess-cut diamond, adorned with delicate pearl accents that frame the diamond on either side and a platinum band holding it all together.

"It was my mother's," I say, voice uncharacteristically soft. "The only thing of hers I kept. The only thing worth keeping. The same way you are the only thing worth keeping in my life.”

Her eyes widen, and for once, I can't read what's behind them. I've left myself exposed in a way I never have before, offered up the only piece of my past that means anything to me.

"Say yes," I whisper, and it sounds more like a command than a question. But there's an undercurrent of vulnerability that I'venever allowed anyone else to hear. "Be mine, Willow. But this time, as my queen."

Her expression softens, but there’s a flicker of caution. “Vincent…” She starts, but I don’t let her finish.

I know what she’s going to say. I can already feel the walls she’s putting up, the distance between us that she always keeps in place, even when we’re this close. And I can’t stand it. Not anymore.

“I’m not talking about a fucking ring, Willow,” I say, voice a little sharper than I mean it to be. "I’m not asking you for a fairy tale or a big wedding. I’m asking you for a chance. I want to build a home, a life.. With you. Together."

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