Page 64 of Savage Vows
He palms my tits, thumbs teasing my nipples while I move, and the mix of tender and filthy makes my head swim. “You’re beautiful,” he says, voice wrecked. “Look at you, taking my cock…slow like this.”
Heat floods my face. I can’t look away. I lean forward, kiss him, moan into his mouth as the tempo builds by heartbeats, not leaps—every stroke drawn out, every breath a shared thing. He slides one hand between us, finds my clit and strokes it in time with the glide of his cock. The pressure builds—steady, sweet, inevitable.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper, rolling my hips harder, riding that edge. “Right there…please.”
“I’ve got you,” he says, and I believe him.
The pleasure crests slowly, like warm water rising; when it breaks, it’s deep and rolling, my body clenching around him in long, liquid pulses. I bite his shoulder and cry out, the sound low and helpless, milking him while he keeps the rhythm gentle, worshipful, easing me through every last tremor.
“Good girl,” he breathes, hands firm on my hips. “Breathe with it.”
I’m still fluttering when he sits up, one arm banding my back, the other guiding my hips. He kisses me hard, then softer, and thrusts shallow and slow until his control frays; I feel him thicken and twitch inside me.
“Come,” I whisper against his mouth. “I want it.”
He groans, muffled, and spills in warm floods, buried deep, holding me tight like he’s afraid I’ll drift away. We stay there, joined and panting, the room quiet except for our breathing and the faint tick of the clock.
After a long minute, he eases back onto the pillow, keeping me seated on him, one palm soothing down my spine. I press my ear to his chest and listen to his heart slow under my cheek.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I murmur, smiling into his skin.
“Good,” he says, thumb drawing lazy lines over my hip. “I’d rather spend all night going slow.”
I hum, sated, the ache now a pleasant throb and the heat a soft glow.
He falls asleep before I do, his breath evening out, arm draped heavy around my waist. I stay curled against his chest, but my mind spins.
I watch the shadows on the ceiling, his body still joined with mine, the soreness and heat lingering as proof of everything we just did. I feel…powerful. Or maybe just reckless.
Maybe this is the way—maybe if I keep him close, keep him wanting, keep playing this game with my body and his hunger, I can get what I need.
He trusts me more when I’m in his bed. He listens differently, softer, when he’s spent and lazy and sated from sex. Maybe if I keep him satisfied, keep him craving me, I’ll be able to ask for more—find my opening, make him let his guard down. Maybe I’ll finally be able to leave this house, or at least move more freely.
I wonder if this is who I have to be now—the wife who fucks her husband for secrets, who trades her body for freedom. The thought burns, but I don’t turn away from it. I just tuck it away, along with all the other dangerous things I’m learning to want.
Beside me, Dante breathes slow and deep, oblivious. I close my eyes and press my lips to his shoulder, holding on to the warmth for as long as I can.
I pull on a soft sweater and a simple skirt, brushing my hair back as best I can. My hands still tremble a little, either from hunger or nerves, but I force myself to walk tall as I make my way downstairs. The voices rise and fall from the dining room, a steady hum of family politics, old habits, new resentments.
The moment I step into the room, I feel their eyes on me—assessing, weighing, judging. Dante’s father sits at the head of the table, a newspaper folded at his elbow. He glances up, his mouth already twisted.
“Punctuality,” he says, folding his paper, “is a form of respect. The women in this house understand that.”
I murmur, “Yes, sir,” and take the nearest empty chair. My stomach knots tighter.
I glance at my coffee, fingers tightening on the cup. I keep my head down, trying to pretend the room isn’t closing in.
“Not her fault,” Dante says. “I kept her up last night.”
An awkward silence descends. I don’t know if I should cry or laugh at his interference.
The aunt’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Red can be a beautiful color,” she says lightly, buttering toast with surgical precision. “On someone who knows how to wear it.” A pause. “Larissa did.”
There’s a ripple of amusement down the table. Dante’s father slides the sugar bowl toward me like a test. “You’ll learn,” he says. “We prefer restraint over spectacle.”
Spectacle. The word lands like a slap, like he was there in my doorway, watching me peel off that torn red dress. My cheeks heat; I force them cool. I think of last night—of Dante’s mouth, his hands, the way my name sounded in his throat—and I straighten my spine.
“Coffee?” the maid whispers at my elbow. I nod.
