Page 7 of Savage Don's Captive

“Dom,” I beg, “Please, go slow,” my voice raw and desperate.

Instead of mercy, he pins my wrists above my head with one hand, gripping my jaw with the other. “Look at me…you take what I give you,tesoro,” he commands, his voice rough and low, vibrating through my bones—forcing me to look at him while he ravages my body. My eyes roll back, and my thighs quake as he ruins every inch of me.

“Ahh!” I gasp, my back arching, toes curling as pain melts into shocking pleasure.

I tighten my legs around his waist, bucking my hips forward—keeping him right where I need him, as I claw his back—leaving trails of red that make him hiss, fucking me harder.

A desperate whimper rips from my throat. Then he moves—rolling his hips just enough to graze that spot inside me. And as if right on time, his cock curves against the backside of my clit—the weight of his body presses into that low ache in my belly—a brutal reminder of who’s in control.

My body trembles, clenching and pulsing as he works me with ruthless precision. I buck my hips wildly, helpless against the onslaught.

“Dom,” I wince. “I’m gonna com—”

“Look at me, I want your eyes on me,piccola.”

I force my eyes open, and the raw intensity between us pushes me over the edge. My body quakes, a hot rush of liquid spilling over him as I come undone.

“Oh My God…”

Gross.

“Damn,Piccola,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “I love this sweet, filthy little pussy—so wet, so fucking perfect for me.” He drives into me, deliberate—fucking me through my orgasm. Every thrust sending wicked pulses of pleasure up my spine, curling at the top of my head, making me dizzy with ecstasy.

He follows, cursing in Italian as his cock jerks, each movement sending jolts through my core. My insides pulse in time withhim. Dom’s grip tightens as he shudders, spilling inside me—heat flooding through us.

For a moment, we just breathe…his weight presses into me, warm and grounding, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against my own. My fingers twitch against his damp skin, reluctant to let go, to shatter the fragile stillness between us.

“See what you did to me,” he murmurs, hot against my ear. “I can’t get enough of you,tesoro.”

I’m still trembling, his cock buried deep inside me, drowning me in sensation.

“You mean whatyoudid to me,” I breathe out, barely able to keep my eyes open.

His lips curl into a lazy grin. “You’re mine now,” he whispers, his voice a low growl before he closes his eyes.

Slowly, his body relaxes—his breath deepening, growing more rhythmic. His grip on me loosens—his muscles go lax, as if he’s sinking into the mattress beneath us. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move—just breathes, lost in the stillness as sleep settles over him.

Then, reality creeps back in.

I should leave… try to catch a few last whispers of the night—The kind that end in locked doors and headlines no one dares to print.

I carefully slip from his arms, gathering my scattered dignity along with my dress. That’s when I see it. The carved wooden box on the nightstand lies open, a glint of metal catching my eye.

I shouldn’t look. I should just get dressed, grab whatever story I can, and get out. But something pulls me toward it.

I lift the lid. The silver barrel gleams in the dim light, a Whitney Wolverine, the engraved fleur-de-lis impossible to miss. Initials etched into the metal: I.R. Isabella Russo.

My mother’s gun.

A small card flutters to the floor, embossed with tonight’s date and the Crimson Gala logo. I pick it up, squinting in the darkness.

Lot #7. Gold Mask. Donation The Sanctum of Grace, three million.

What the Fuck…my buyer’s receipt.

The floor seems to tilt beneath my feet. Dom. The man I thought I chose. The man I allowed myself to want—bought me before I even stepped into the ballroom.

The questions tumble out faster than I can catch them. How the hell did he get my mother’s gun?

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