Page 93 of Savage Union
I press her open with firm hands, dragging my thumbs along the crease of her thighs, admiring the slick heat already waiting for me. “Look at you,” I murmur against her skin. “Dripping for me,bambolina. So sweet and ready, and I haven’t even tasted you yet.”
Then I do.
Idevourher.
My tongue parts her folds, slow and deep, savoring the first taste like it’s the finest wine I’ve ever had—complex, addictive,uniquely hers. I moan against her, letting the vibration sink into her core as I lick her again, then again, each pass more deliberate than the last.
She gasps—quiet and sharp—and I catch her reflection in the mirror above us. She’s biting her lip, eyes wide, fingers white-knuckled on the marble edge.
“Don’t hide from me,” I growl into her cunt. “Let mehearit.”
She whimpers, a broken sound that makes my cock throb against the zipper of my pants. My hands come up to anchor her hips, holding her firm as her knees begin to tremble.
She’s trying to stay quiet. Controlled. But every time I circle her clit with my tongue and suck it between my lips, she falters—hips twitching, thighs clenching, little sounds spilling out despite her pride.
I eat her until she’s panting, forehead pressed to the mirror, fogging it with every ragged exhale.
“Vito…” she gasps, and fuck, the sound of my name on her lips like that—pleading, reverent, ruined—nearly undoes me.
I pull her back into my mouth with a groan, tongue flicking harder, faster, lips sealed around her until I feel it—the telltale quiver, the sharp breath, the desperate clench of her thighs.
“Come for me,” I command against her soaked heat. “Come on my tongue like a good girl.”
She breaks.
Her whole body shudders, her hand flying to her mouth to muffle the scream she can’t hold back. “Vito—fuck?—”
Her legs nearly give out, but I hold her steady, my hands gripping her hips like handles as I ride out every twitch, every pulse of her orgasm. Her thighs quake. Her moans are choked and frantic, her other hand slamming into the mirror to keep herself upright.
Even after she comes, Idon’tstop.
Not immediately.
I ease her down from the edge with soft licks, gentler now—tracing her folds, pressing light kisses to her swollen clit, savoring the aftershock like dessert. She flinches, too sensitive, and I murmur, “Shh, I’ve got you,” as I press my palms up her sides.
Only when I feel her start to breathe again—reallybreathe—do I pull away, dragging my hands up her thighs, her hips, her ribs.
In the mirror, I meet her gaze.
She lookswrecked.
Hair tangled. Lips parted. Chest heaving. Her skin flushed, her eyes wild. And all of it—every last inch of it—is mine.
“You should see yourself right now,” I murmur into her ear, voice thick with pride and possession. “Painted in pleasure. And every drop of it was for me.”
She tries to speak, but her voice is gone.
And god, it’s perfect.
As I carefully stand, mindful of the dress, her expression is a study in contradictions—satisfaction warring with disbelief, vulnerability with newfound power. I smooth the fabric of her dress back into place, restoring her to bridal perfection, though the flush on her skin and the brightness of her eyes tell a different story.
"That was..." She seems at a loss for words.
"Just the beginning," I finish for her, straightening my tie with practiced ease. "Consider it a preview of our wedding night."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You're incorrigible."
"And you're magnificent." I brush a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear in a gesture that feels unexpectedly tender. "We should return before they send a search party."
