Page 102 of Broken

At my vow, his dick hardens against my belly.

“Everything?” he rasps, looking at me like a kid who’s just learned Christmas comes with gifts.

“Yes,” I promise with all the crazy, fucked-up love I’m capable of.

His nostrils flare and he connects our mouths. God help me, it feels different.

Last night, the first time he kissed me was a revelation, but now, something’s changed for him.

Not for me.

I already knew I loved him. I’ve been feeling this way since I saw his picture on a TV screen all those years ago.

Savio kisses me likeheloves me though.

I can wait for the words. He’s a man who prefers action, after all.

In response, I thrust my tongue into his mouth and I let my body melt into his even more. It’s incredible how my slenderness somehow fits all his hard planes, but it does. We’re like two pieces that have been missing from an almost complete jigsaw puzzle, and at last, we’re coming together.

I have no choice but to climb him like he’s a tree. I hook one leg around his hips then jump so I can clasp the other around him too. He grabs my ass, pulling at my butt cheeks through my jeans, and when he leans me against the kitchen counter, I envision him taking me there, but he doesn’t do that.

If anything, his hard kisses turn softer. A bit gentler.

He carts me out of the room. Before I know it, we’re climbing the stairs, and he doesn’t stop to breathe or pant, just carries on until we’re in his bedroom.

He places me on the bed, and only then does he pull back. I watch as he tears the buttons off his shirt, unfastens his fly, then steps out of the rest of his vestments to turn back into the man I love.

When his boxer briefs are out of the way too, he grabs my legs, tugs me toward him, then gets to work on my skinny jeans.

I don’t help. I just lie there, letting him do this, and then I laugh when he grumbles, “What the hell are these torture devices?”

My lips curve. “The last time you had sex, was everyone wearing flares?”

His eyes narrow, and forcing a bubble of laughter out of me, he nips my calf through the denim. “How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Ancient?”

“Flares were out of fashion when I was born, so that should reassure you.”

My grin is sassy, but I squeak when he works off my jeans, revealing my thighs, then surprises the hell out of me—four slaps to one thigh, five to another, nine total. Again. Nine.

What’s with the nine?

But before I can say a word or ask a question, he pushes my legs back so they’re against my stomach. He holds my ankles even as he leans down, swipes his tongue through my folds, which are smushed together, and then moans. “Why do you taste like raspberries?”

Delirious, I groan. “Do I?”

“Yes,” he hisses.

“I have a very good sense of smell and I can’t smell raspberries.”

“You don’t shove your nose in your cunt though, do you?”

Oh, Lord, he did not just say that word.

I have no idea why, but it sends molten heat soaring through me. It’s rude. It’s crude. It’s everything Savio isn’t, and I think that’s why I love it.

He can be dark with me.

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