Page 66 of Savage Union
I come with a cry strangled behind my palm, my body jerking as his tongue flattens against me, drinking down everything I give him like he’s starving. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He holds me open with bruising fingers and keeps tasting me like I belong to him now.
When I finally slump back against the desk, boneless and breathless, he stands—towering over me with a dark flush in his cheeks and my slick glistening on his mouth.
“You gonna thank me properly?” he asks, voice rough, eyes hooded.
I drop to my knees without a word.
His belt’s already undone, pants shoved down just enough, and when I pull him free, he groans—low and guttural—like I’ve just touched something sacred. He’s heavy in my hand, hot and hard, and the moment I wrap my lips around him, his head hits the wall with a dull thud.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “That mouth—Jesus.”
I suck him slow, then hard, dragging my tongue along the vein on the underside, teasing the tip, letting spit pool at the corners of my mouth just to hear him groan again. His hands tangle in my hair, not guiding—gripping. Desperate.
“You look so pretty like this,” he rasps. “On your knees. Mouth full of me. Fucking mine.”
And I am.
Every filthy inch.
I don’t tease.
Not because I don’t want to—but because I don’t know how. Not really. I’ve never done this before, never had a man unravel for me, never been the reason someone like him—this untouchable, cold-blooded, terrifyingly beautiful man—is breathing heavy like he might lose control.
But I want to be.
So I let instinct guide me.
I wrap my lips around him slowly, carefully, feeling the weight and heat of him on my tongue, and when I hollow my cheeks just a little, he makes a noise so guttural, so ruined, it makes my thighs clench.
“Fuck—just like that.” His voice is wrecked, rougher than I’ve ever heard it. Like I’m breaking something in him.
His hands twist in my hair—tight, possessive. Not forcing. Not yet. Just holding. Grounding himself.
I start to move, slowly at first, experimenting with rhythm, with suction, with pressure. The taste of him is bitter and hot, musk and salt and something uniquelyhis, and every time I take him deeper, his groans get darker. Louder. Like I’ve tapped into a part of him no one else has ever touched.
When I glance up, his eyes are locked on mine—wild and barely restrained. “You’re fucking perfect like this,” he growls. “My sweet little bride, on her knees, choking on my cock like she wasmadefor it.”
Heat floods me again—between my legs, in my chest, in my cheeks—but I don’t stop. I can’t. Not when he’s like this. Not whenImade him like this.
I swirl my tongue around the tip, letting drool mix with his pre-come as I take him deeper, feeling my throat stretch, my jaw ache. My inexperience should show—but the way he twitches in my mouth tells me I’m doing something right. The way he swears under his breath, hips jerking once, twice, before he forces them still.
He’s close.
I know it before he says anything. I canfeelit—his cock thickening, pulsing, his hands tightening in my hair like a warning.
“I’m gonna come,” he grits out. “Fuck—don’t stop. Take it. Be a good fucking girl and take every drop.”
And I do.
I brace myself as he lets go—his whole body going taut above me as he groans, deep and broken, and his hips give one final thrust forward, burying himself to the back of my throat. He holds me there as he spills down my throat, hot and thick and endless.
I wasn’t ready.
Not for thetaste, not for the sheervolume, not for the shocking, overwhelmingintimacyof it.
I gag once, barely, but I swallow it down—refusing to waste a drop, refusing to lose the power I feel in this moment.
Because that’s what it is.
