Page 50 of Desperate Actions

Oh. My. Fuck.

Sammy Ramirez is between my thighs.

And nothing in my life has ever prepared me for this.

For him.

For the way he’s holding me down like he owns me. Like I’m not just some girl he married tonight but a feast he’s waited years to devour.

Like he’s been starving for me.

For me.

His grip tightens on my hips, fingers pressing deep into my flesh, grounding me, trapping me against his mouth.

“So good, Pixie. Sweet like sugar,” he growls, voice rough, hungry, every syllable brushing against my clit like a command.

And then he lifts me.

Lifts my whole goddamn body off the bed.

One second, I’m flat on my back, lost in the heat of his mouth.

The next, my ass is suspended in the air, my spine arched into some kind of backbend that defies both logic and physics.

A position my fluffy ass has never been in, I assure you.

But I do not care.

Not one itty-bitty, minuscule, insignificant little bit.

Because right now?

Sparks are going off inside me, bright and hot and devastating, every nerve ending in my body focused on the slow, heated pressure coiling deep in my core.

My breath stutters.

My legs shake.

“Oh, God! Yes!” I moan, my voice high, desperate, wrecked.

And I know—as long as he keeps licking into me like that, I will fold myself into a pretzel, a knot, a goddamn human sacrifice if he wants me to.

He pulls back just enough to mutter, “Not God, Pixie. Sammy. Or husband.”

He growls, and the sound rumbles straight through my core as he goes back to wrecking my soul with his tongue.

Only this time?

He’s not just using his mouth.

A thick, long finger pushes inside me, sliding deep, stretching me in a way I didn’t know I needed.

And—oh fuck—it’s so good.

“Sammy!” I gasp, my back bowing, my hands flying down to grab his head, his hair, something to keep me tethered to reality.

He doesn’t stop.

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