Page 74 of Savage Don's Captive

Satisfied with my surrender, he resumes his previous rhythm, moving even faster now. I writhe against him as pleasure builds to an unbearable point. Just when I think I might pass out from the tension, he starts rubbing his thumb faster in teeny tight circles.

“Now,” he commands, his voice like gravel. “Fucking. Come.”

My body obeys as if it belongs to him—which, at this moment, it absolutely does.

The orgasm crashes over me, brutal and unrelenting. I cry out his name, my body shaking, uncontrollable. My knees buckle, but Dominic steadies me, his grip firm as I fall apart in his arms.

I can’t catch my breath, my body a heap of trembling nerves, when he turns my face to his and kisses me—hard, demanding. It’s not gentle. It’s a claim, possessive and raw.

We stay like that for a moment, just breathing together. Then he withdraws his hand, fixing my underwear as I try to remember how my legs work. I smooth down my skirt, hoping I don’t look as thoroughly wrecked as I feel.

As I fix my hair, our eyes meet in the mirror again. Dominic slowly puts his fingers in his mouth, licking them clean.

“Fucking pervert,” I laugh, my face burning at how sexy it is. We’re about to go to church, and here he is, tasting me like I’m his favorite dessert.

“Fucking delicious.”

I notice his gaze shift to something behind me. Following his line of sight, I see the bedside drawer not quite closed—where I stashed the gun. His expression hardens slightly, then returns to normal so fast I almost think I imagined it. But I didn’t. He knows where I’m keeping it and isn’t saying another word about it. Even with his fingers still wet from being inside me, we’re playing this twisted game of cat and mouse.

Chapter twenty-one

Alessa

Theysaythedevildoesn’t belong in a church. So how is it he’s sitting in a pew right beside me? The scent of burning wax and old sins lingers in the air, thick enough to choke on. I shouldn’t be here. And neither should he.

“Go in peace, glorifying the Lord by your life,” the priest says from the altar, raising his hands.

“Thanks be to God,” everyone responds.

This mass has been pure torture. For me, at least. Everyone else seems into it, laughing at the priest’s lame jokes about marriage during his homily while I fight to keep my eyes open. The only thing keeping me awake is Dominic’s thigh pressed against mine and the memory of what those hands did to me just an hour ago.

We barely made it on time, and honestly, it’s a miracle we made it at all. If Dominic’s security guys hadn’t been in the car with us, we probably would have ended up in the backseat instead of the church pews. Three men in dark suits are scattered around the church, pretending to be regular worshippers but constantly scanning the crowd. Nothing says “I trust you” like an armed escort, right?

When we first walked in, it was like a scene from a movie. Every head turned. People whispered. An old guy practically jumped out of his seat to give Dominic his spot near the front. A woman clutched her rosary like she’d seen the devil himself. These people weren’t just impressed by his wealth—they were terrified of him. It hit me then that in this town, Dominic isn’t just some rich guy. He’sTHEguy. The boss. The one everyone answers to.

Dominic stopped to greet the priest, Reverend Giuseppe, before mass started. They chatted in rapid Italian while I stood there awkwardly. I caught a few words—something about donations and family obligations. Dominic slipped him an envelope that disappeared into the priest’s pocket faster than you could say “tax-free contribution.” Then Dominic introduced me as Isabella Russo’s daughter, and the priest’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. He asked me to stay after mass to talk.

The walk down the aisle felt endless. Dominic took my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, and I swear I could feel every eye on us. I straightened my spine and channeled my inner celebrity, pretending I was used to this kind of attention instead of wanting to crawl under a pew.

The gossip started immediately. Two women behind us weren’t even trying to whisper.

“I’ve never seen her before,” one said. “She must be visiting.”

“That’s why Mr. Gianelli is back in town,” the other replied. “I knew there had to be a reason.”

Petty? Me...Never. But when it came time for the sign of peace, I turned and planted a kiss right on Dominic’s lips. His surprise lasted half a second before he caught on, pulling me closer as the old biddies behind us gasped loud enough to drown out the choir. Worth it.

Now the mass is finally ending, and Dominic sits relaxed on the pew, waiting for people to clear out. I’m still stuck on the image of him taking communion, dropping cash in the collection basket. Who knew mafiosos were so damn religious?

“The last time I went to church, my mother was still alive,” I say quietly, watching the priest chat with parishioners. “She never seemed particularly spiritual, but we were here every Sunday without fail.”

We’re not touching anymore—the show’s over—but I’m hyper aware of him next to me, his warmth, his scent. It’s pathetic how much I want him to touch me again, like I’ve become addicted to him overnight.

“It’s some sort of misguided sense of redemption if you ask me,” he says with that smirk that makes my stomach flip.

“So, why do you show up? Don’t tell me you actually believe in all this.”

“I grew up with parents who were serious about church. It’s less about believing and more about obligation.” I can’t help picturing mini-Dominic in his Sunday best, fidgeting through mass, getting scolded for not paying attention. It’s too humanizing, and that’s dangerous territory.

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