Page 74 of Savage Union
I expect her to pull back, to come to her senses and recoil from what she's initiated. The resistance I anticipate is there, a momentary tension in her body—then it melts, transforms into something else entirely as she presses closer, deepening the kiss with a soft sound that's half frustration, half need.
"I hate you," she gasps against my mouth, even as her hands work at my tie, yanking it loose with frantic movements.
"The feeling is mutual," I growl, though we both know it's a lie. What burns between us is far more complicated than hate.
My hands find the hem of her sweater, tugging it upward until she's forced to break the kiss long enough for me to pull it over her head. She retaliates by attacking the buttons of my shirt, several popping free in her haste.
"Careful," I warn, though I'm already beyond caring about ruined clothing.
"Shut up," she commands, and I almost laugh at the reversal—her giving orders, me following them. But there's nothing humorous about the sight of her flushed skin, her dark eyes glittering with challenge and desire.
I silence her retort with another kiss, lifting her easily and carrying her across the room. The dining table is set for dinner, places meticulously arranged by Antonia for a meal neither of us cares about now.
With one sweep of my arm, I clear the surface, crystal and china crashing to the floor in a cacophony of destruction. The bracelet's box falls too, silver links spilling across marble in a glittering cascade.
I set Caterina on the table's edge, standing between her legs as she works the last buttons of my shirt free, pushing it from my shoulders with impatient hands. Her touch burns against my skin, igniting nerve endings long deadened by years of rigid control.
"Is this your answer to everything?" she asks breathlessly as my mouth trails down her neck. "Silencing opposition with sex?"
I pull back just enough to meet her gaze. "Is that what you think this is?"
"Isn't it?"
Instead of answering, I unhook her bra with practiced ease, my hands sliding up to cup her breasts as they spill free. The sharp intake of her breath, the way her head falls back, the flush spreading down her neck to her chest—there's nothing calculated in these responses. Nothing strategic or manipulated.
"Tell me to stop," I challenge, thumbs brushing across sensitive skin. "Say the word, and this ends now."
Her eyes lock with mine, conflict warring in their depths—pride against desire, anger against need. For a moment, I think she might actually do it—might push me away, reclaim the moralhigh ground, preserve the narrative that everything between us is force and subjugation.
Instead, she whispers, "Don't stop."
Something shifts in my chest at those words—something dangerously close to tenderness. I push it aside, focusing instead on the physical, on the undeniable chemistry that's been crackling between us since the beginning.
I lower my mouth to her breasts, licking, sucking, dragging my teeth along her sensitive skin until she moans, her nails scraping over my scalp like she doesn’t know whether to pull me closer or push me away.
“Vito,” she breathes, the syllables turning my name into something reverent. Her fingers tangle in my hair, neither pushing away nor pulling closer—simply holding on as if anchoring herself against a storm.
I look up, finding her watching me with an expression I've never seen before—vulnerability mixed with wonder, as if she's surprised by her own response. It stirs something protective in me, something at odds with the anger that drove us to this point.
"Tell me what you want, Caterina," I murmur against her skin.
"I want—" She breaks off, frustration crossing her features. "I don't know. Everything. Nothing. I want to stop thinking."
I understand the sentiment more than she knows. Thinking is dangerous—it leads to doubts, to questions neither of us is ready to answer. Far better to lose ourselves in sensation, in the undeniable truth of our bodies' response to each other.
My hands move to her leggings, easing them down along with her underwear. She helps, lifting her hips, then reaching for my belt with unsteady fingers. I let her work the buckle free, the button, the zipper, each movement bringing us closer to a point of no return.
When we're both finally bare, I take a moment to simply look at her—really look at her. Beyond the obvious beauty, I see the strength in her frame, the determination in the set of her shoulders even now. This is no cowering victim nor calculating seductress. This is a warrior, meeting me as an equal on the battlefield of our mutual desire.
"Are you just going to stare?" she challenges, though I hear the uncertainty beneath the bravado.
"I'm committing you to memory," I admit, surprising myself with the honesty. "Every detail."
A flush spreads across her skin at my words. "Why?"
"Because you're mine." I step closer, reclaiming the space between her legs. "And I want to remember the moment you finally accepted it."
Anger flashes in her eyes. "I haven't accepted anything."
