Page 114 of Salvatore

“Because you arranged a stylist I don’t need,” she argues.

“Who you could’ve easily sent home without my permission.” I stare into her eyes, getting lost in her tempting tenacity. “Admit you’ve been waiting for an excuse to come see me.”

She swallows. Quickly licks her lips.

She’s not broken. A little out of practice, maybe, but the tension still crackles between us.

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d ever admit to.” She clings to the table in a white-knuckled grip. “I can understand why you’d want me to, though, given your obvious obsession with me.”

I don’t think I’ve ever had a reason to smirk as much as I have since knowing this woman. Everything she says hits right. “Is it that obvious?”

She shrugs. “I’m sure parasites are less clingy.”

“So much for discretion. I guess my cover is already blown. I suppose there’s nothing else I can do but bask in my downfall.” I slide a hand over her hip, fucking delighted at the way her nipples pebble beneath her blouse.

She grasps my wrist. “Send the stylist home.”

“I will. Once she’s done dressing you to reflect your worth.”

“That defeats my point.”

“We can discuss it later.” I grab the waistband of her jeans and casually undo the button. Testing. Scrutinizing. “My priorities are elsewhere.” I lower the zipper so fucking slowly my patience is savaged, while anticipating a protest that doesn’t come.

There’s nothing but tenacious eye contact and the slightly defiant angle of her chin.

She might think I’m bluffing. That this is a reckless game of chicken—one she’s destined to lose.

“I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you.” I inch my fingertips beneath the elastic of her panties, my self-control onlock in case her trauma flares, while adrenaline floods my veins. “I’m sure you already know that, though.”

“Salvatore.” There’s a warning in her voice, one that lacks adamance as she squares her shoulders, her chest rising and falling with quickening breaths.

It isn’t panic.

I’m not sure how I know, but I do. What she’s experiencing is failing restraint, her composure unraveling like smoke trying to hold shape in the wind.

“Do you have any idea how hard I’ve been for you?” My fingertips gently brush her trimmed pubic hair, cautious, almost meek, until I reach the smooth skin of her pussy, my nostrils flaring in appreciation. “My nights have been spent reliving the sounds you make when you come. I can’t wait to hear them again.”

Her back arches slightly and she grabs for the pool table again, her grip clenched tight. This strength of hers after the devastation of unimaginable cruelty only makes me crave her more.

She’s a goddess.

A true fucking queen.

“I, um…” she whispers.

“I, um?” I delve lower, gliding through the heart of her. She’s fucking wet, the slick heat of her pussy blowing my goddamn mind. “It feels like you’ve missed me.” I lean closer, my cheek brushing hers while I murmur in her ear, “Maybe not as much as I missed you, but it’s a start.”

She closes her eyes, a gentle moan escaping her as her thighs tighten around my wrist. I tease in slow strokes, back and forth, light and tormenting, luxuriating in her subtle whimpers.

Every fiber of my being burns with the need to bring her pleasure, my tainted soul craving the chance to make hers whole again.

“What’s wrong?” I nuzzle her neck, grazing my teeth along the soft skin that erupts in goose bumps. “You’re usually mouthy, Ivy. Where’s all your audacity gone?”

“It’s still here,” she pants. “Waiting for you to fail.”

I snicker. “I won’t fail,mi reina. I won’t stop until you come.” I slowly inch a finger inside her, lazy and smooth. “But I think you already know that. You’re well aware I won’t leave you wanting.”

She huffs in feigned disbelief. Yet there’s no protest. No sass as I begin working my finger inside her, curling my fingertip to brush against her internal wall in search of that sweet spot.

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