Page 173 of Salvatore

If only my damn injuries didn’t restrict me from all the delicious things I want to do.

“Touch me,” I beg.

Yes, beg.

It’s a foreign concept in this type of setting. I’m usually in control. In command. But right now, I want to be ruled by him. Conquered.

“Please, Salvatore.”

“Be patient.I’ll give you what you need. But I want to see you first.” He grabs the hem of my nightshirt, delicately raises it above my shoulders, then over my head to toss it to the covers.

He devours the sight of me, his gaze animalistic as a callused palm trails lazily from my shoulder down my sternum, the descent between my breasts painfully slow. “You’re fucking perfect.” He continues lower, over my ribs to my stomach, then stops at the bandages below my belly button.

Torment hardens his features, the thin press of his lips mirroring the way my body coils beneath his touch—too exposed, too fragile, too desperate for him to put me back together.

He raises his gaze to mine. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

“These injuries aren’t your mistake. They’re mine. I rarely trust anyone. Adena shouldn’t have made the cut.”

“No, she shouldn’t.” He slides a possessive hand into my hair, bringing his forehead to mine. “Don’t trust anyone ever again.”

“Not even you?”

Something flashes in his eyes—something pained. “Especially not me.”

“Do you plan on hurting me?”

“No, but I’m sure I will. It’s an unwanted trait I can’t shake.”

“Well, then, you’re lucky I can look after myself.” I undo the next button on his shirt, then the next. “I’ll drag you into line if you dare to slip up.” I release the last button, devouring the unholy sight of his muscled chest as I grab his wrists and guide his hands back down to my thighs. “You’re a good man, Salvatore. A protective, trustworthy man who I currently want to do very,verybad things to me.”

He grumbles a frustrated laugh. “Fucking hormones.”

I beam, despite knowing hormones aren’t the issue. What drives me is something bigger. Something stronger. Something that feels awfully like a sensation people write stupid, sappy poetry about as his hands graze possessively up my inner thighs, those thumbs skimming dangerously close to my center before settling at the very edge of where I crave him.

“Is this where you need me?” He teases his touch a breath from my entrance. Up and down. Confident and smug.

“Sally, if the outside of my pussy is where you think the magic happens, it’s a miracle you got me pregnant in the first place.”

His smirk is subtle, his eye contact on point as he continues the tease, moving upward, making my skin tingle as he skirts the outside of my labia to my mons. “Yeah, a fucking miracle.” Then he drags the firm pressure downward, right to my throbbing clit.

I gasp. Jolt.

There’s a twinge of pain through my middle. A niggle at the wound on my hip. I ignore both, focusing on the insidiously greedy ache of my core.

“More,” I whisper.

He slides his thumbs lower, through the slickness, to my opening. “You want me here,mi reina?”

It’s not a question. Not really. It’s more of a taunt. A sinful provocation.

“I want you everywhere,” I admit.

A throaty rumble grates from him as he slowly inches both thumbs inside me, stretching my muscles, sparking more of that delicious ache.

He devours the sight of me, visually adoring me.

It leaves me warm.No, it makes me burn.

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