Page 81 of Broken

I sigh, my breath brushing his hair as he turns his face and rakes his teeth over my nipple. Through the cotton, it’s heavenly, but I know it will be even better when he touches my skin.

I shiver as he nibbles, then when he nips, I squeak, but my hips jerk and I spread my legs.

The noise jolts him. He freezes. Then his forehead pushes into my chest. “I’m a—” He swallows. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“I’m the Eve to your Adam,” I murmur, repeating what I told him last night, tempting him just like she tempted her man. “I was born for this. Born for you.”

Something in my voice, or maybe just the words, has him moving. He doesn’t go far though, thank God. He peers at me in the early morning light, rasping, “You’re a virgin?”

So I tell him my truth: “I was waiting for you.”

His eyes flare. “I swear you’re not real. I’m going to wake up and you’re not going to be here?—”

I grab his hand and shove it between my legs. It’s crass and crude, but I whisper, “Do I feel like a dream?”

“You feel like paradise,” he grinds out, cupping me there until his fingers begin a light dance over my clit.

Unable to contain the sound, unable to resist the desire rushing through my veins, I close my eyes.

For so long, I wanted this.

For so long, I’ve needed this.

And now he’s here and he’s going to give me what I’ve been looking for—him.

When he rolls between my legs, I still, not wanting to scare him away. Because I might have wings, but he’s the one who will fly away if I’m not careful.

My words reached him last night—I know they did—but in the cold light of morning, things change.

His dick pushes against me, the thick weight settling between my spread pussy lips with two thin shields of cotton separating us. I can feel the pressure against my clit, and it makes me want to rock my hips.

We both hiss when he presses harder into me, settling most of his body atop mine. Then, his arms come to rest on either side of my head. On this occasion, he’s the one who presses our foreheads together.

And from surrounding him, he surrounds me.

I’ve never known anything like it. It’s overwhelming, almost scary, but it’s Savio. He might be a killer, but he’s my killer.

MySavio.

Mysinner.

Myseeker of redemption.

He seems to pick up on that because he rumbles, “You’re not scared of me at all, are you? Even though you know what?—”

“You’re the one who thinks I’m crazy,” I interrupt, not wanting him to lose track of where we’re at. “Maybe you should be thankful for small mercies?”

His eyes narrow. “You’re a cheeky little thing, aren’t you?”

Tongue-in-cheek, I tell him, “In America, they call me a smart-ass.”

“Your ass is something, but I wouldn’t say it’s smart.”

“What is it then?” I pout.

“Bitable.”

“Okay, I can deal with that.”

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