Page 60 of Savage Vows
“Dante—” she gasps as I kiss her.
“Fuck, your tits…” I rasp against her mouth, then drop my head and take one into my mouth. Her breath breaks. I suck slow, then harder, tongue teasing the tip, my free hand sliding down her ribs, over her waist, slipping under her hem to the hot skin of her thigh. She’s trembling, not from fear—never that—but from the same fever that’s burning me alive.
“Dante,” she whispers, wrecked.
“Say it’s okay,” I murmur against her nipple, looking up. “Tell me.”
Her eyes meet mine, dark and certain. “Yes.”
That single word ruins me.
I push her knees apart with one hand and stroke over her panties—soaked. Christ. I hook the edge, slide my fingers in, and find heat and slick that makes my cock jerk. I kiss her again as my fingers circle her clit, slow, mean, until she’s rocking into my hand. Then I sink two fingers inside, palm grinding her clit as I fuck her with my hand. She moans into my mouth, the sound small and filthy and perfect. Her pulse hammers under my tongue where I kiss her throat.
She grabs my wrist andpushesfor more. I give it to her—deeper, knuckles grazing, curling just right—and her whole body shivers. I can’t stop looking at her. She’s flushed, lips swollen, one breast bared and slick from my mouth. I want to throw her on the bed and wreck her, but I’m not losing this kiss, or this pace. I rock my hips into her thigh; she feels my cock thick and angry behind my zipper and whimpers like she wants it insidenow.
“Feel what you do to me,” I growl, taking her hand and dragging it to my fly. She palms me through the fabric and I nearly come like a teenager. I pop the button, shove the zipper down, andher fingers slide inside to wrap around me—hot, tentative for a heartbeat, then surer when I groan against her lips.
“Good girl,” I breathe. “Just like that.”
She strokes me while I work her, our rhythm syncing—my fingers stroking deep and grinding up, her fist gliding from the root to the sensitive head, wrist twisting just enough to make my vision haze. I mouth her other tit, sucking greedily, teeth grazing until she jerks and gasps my name like a prayer.
“Come for me,” I tell her, voice ragged. “Soak my hand. I want to feel it.”
Her thighs clamp around my wrist, hips stuttering. I switch the angle—curl and press—and she breaks, pulsing tight around my fingers, heat spilling over my hand. The sight of her coming—head tipped back, lips parted, that choked little cry—snaps something in me. I brace a forearm beside her head, thrust into her fist once, twice, and spill across her fingers and my own stomach with a guttural curse, crashing my mouth back to hers to swallow the sounds we’re both making.
For a long beat, all I hear is our breathing—harsh, uneven, greedy. I kiss her softer, licking into her mouth lazily while my fingers slide out of her and stroke slow through the aftershocks. She shivers and clutches my shirt, pulling me in like she can’t stand even an inch of space.
I lick my hand clean, watch her eyes go wide, then catch her wrist and suck her slick fingers into my mouth too. She watches, dazed, cheeks flushed, and I swear I feel her shudder again.
I kiss her softer, slower, letting the heat settle instead of flare. “Tell me,” I whisper against her mouth. “You want me?”
Her palm slides up my chest, fingers curling at my collar. “Yes,” she breathes. “I want your cock.”
Her words send a thrill down my spine.
I kiss her again, harder this time. Her lips part. Her nails bite my shoulders. “God…Dante.”
“Sweet girl,” I murmur, kissing her again as I bottom out. “Look at me.”
I strip my jacket and shove the sleeves back, fingers already at my shirt buttons. She steps in without a word, nimble, undoing them one by one while her eyes stay on my mouth. The brush of her knuckles against my chest makes my cock throb. I catch her wrist, kiss the inside of it, then let her finish; the shirt slides off my shoulders and hits the floor.
Her hands go to my belt. She bites her lip while she works the buckle, pulls the leather free, and I swear under my breath when her knuckles drag over the hard line of me. Zipper down. Heat up. I toe off my shoes.
“Come here,” I murmur.
I scoop her up—one arm under her thighs, the other at her back—and she gasps, arms flying around my neck as I carry her to the bed. She’s light, soft, warm everywhere I touch.
The red dress is the same one I tore earlier—zipper busted, one strap hanging, slit ripped high so I can see the pale flash of her thigh. I set her in the center of the mattress and that’s when I catch it—the flicker of self-consciousness. Her hands fly to the torn fabric like she’s about to tug it down, hide the skin the rip exposes.
“Hey.” I cover her fingers with mine, pinning them gently. “Eyes on me.” I kiss the corner of her mouth, slow, grounding. “You’re perfect. I want all of you.”
Color climbs her cheeks. She nods and lets her arms slide up over her head to the pillow.
I brace over her on one forearm and shove my pants and briefs down with the other hand. My cock springs free, heavy and aching; her gaze drops, pupils blowing wide, breath catching—and it nearly undoes me. I kick the clothes away, then drag the torn red dress higher over her hips.
The neckline’s already split; her tits spill free, nipples tight and begging for my mouth again. I palm one, then the other—sweet weight, perfect heat—and she arches like she can’t help herself. I can’t stop myself from getting enough of her.
“Beautiful,” I rasp, taking a nipple between my lips, tongue teasing until she whimpers. My hand slides down her belly, under the torn hem, and finds her clit again. She’s still soaked for me. I wish I could taste her on my tongue again, but I need to be inside her first.
