Page 63 of Savage Vows
I can’t stop watching him. I stand just above the bed, half in shadow, studying every inch of him as he sleeps—his bare back, the way his arm curls under the pillow, his lips parted, lashes dark against his cheek. For a moment, I forget to breathe.
Then he twitches, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Something about the movement makes me lean in, just a little closer, as if I could read his mind through the lines on his face. Is he dreaming? Hurting? I reach out, barely letting my fingers hover near his shoulder, not sure if I’m trying to comfort him or just reassure myself that he’s real.
His eyes snap open.
Before I can move, he’s on me—quicker than I can blink. He grabs my wrist, hauls me forward, and in one practiced motion, flips me onto the bed. My back hits the mattress with a bounce, and I yelp, startled. He’s on top of me, hand pressing over my mouth, eyes heavy with sleep.
“What the hell were you doing?” he rasps, voice thick and rough, pinning me in place.
I freeze, heart thundering, and glance up just in time to catch a glint of metal—a gun tucked half-hidden under his pillow.
When his hand drops, I whisper, “You keep a gun with you when you sleep?”
He gives me a crooked, sleepy half smile, like this is just another part of his night. “Job hazard,” he mutters, voice soft but edged.
His body is pressed tight over mine, the sheet twisted between us. He’s still half in the world of sleep—hair wild, jaw shadowed, gaze heavy as he watches me catch my breath beneath him.
“You always that jumpy?” I try to sound casual, but my voice is shaky. His hand lingers at my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth where he’d just pressed me silent.
He smirks, sleepily. “You shouldn’t sneak up on men like me,malyshka.Bad things happen.”
I want to snap something back, but the words stick. I’m too aware of how close he is, the heat pouring off him, the scent of him in the dark. And suddenly, as his hips settle between my legs, I feel it—the unmistakable, growing press of him, thick and hard, nudging against my thigh.
My eyes go wide. He notices, his lips curling in the dark, a little smug and a little undone.
I swallow, cheeks burning. “Is this—does this happen every time someone wakes you up?”
He grins, voice dropping, rough as gravel. “Only when it’s you.”
I shiver, trapped between the weight of his body and the heat blooming between us. My heart hammers, and I know he feels it. He shifts, grinding his hips just enough that the friction sends sparks right through me.
“You should go back to your room,” he warns, but there’s no conviction in it—only hunger, slow and dark, spilling between us in the moonlight.
“I don’t want to,” I whisper, heat curling low in my belly. “I want you.”
Something eases in his face. He lowers his mouth to mine, not a rush this time but a deep, lingering kiss that unspools my nerves one by one. His weight is warm, heavy in a way that makes me feel anchored. When his tongue slides against mine, slow and teasing, my body answers before my mind catches up—hips tilting, a soft sound escaping my throat.
“Okay?” he murmurs, breath brushing my lips.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”
He kisses a path down my neck, unhurried, like he’s got all night and plans to use it. His palm cups my breast through the thin fabric, thumb circling my nipple until it tightens, then he eases the neckline aside and takes me into his mouth. The pull of his lips is lazy, decadent. His hand strokes my other tit in slow counterpoint until I’m arching up, asking for more without words.
He slides his hand down my stomach, fingers slipping under my waistband to find me warm and slick. I gasp, thighs parting. He doesn’t rush—just traces my slit, then strokes my clit in small, patient circles that make my toes curl. When he sinks two fingers inside, it’s careful, measured; he curls them just right and the soreness from earlier dissolves under a wave of sweet heat.
“Still good?” he asks against my skin.
“So good,” I whisper, breathless.
He kisses me again and rolls to his back, drawing me over him. “Let me see you,” he says, voice low. I straddle his hips, his cock hot and heavy against me, and the look on his face—reverent, hungry—turns my pulse to thunder.
I guide him to me, the thick head nudging my entrance. We both exhale. I sink down slowly, inch by inch, taking him, stretching around him. He keeps his hands gentle on my hips, thumbs stroking circles, eyes locked to mine as if to catch the first sign of discomfort. There isn’t any—only the sweet ache of fullness, the delicious drag as I slide lower until I’m seated all the way, stuffed and throbbing.
“Oh,” I breathe, shivering. “Dante…”
His jaw flexes. “Christ, you feel perfect.” He stays still, letting me set the pace. “Move how you like, baby.”
I rock my hips in a slow, greedy roll, and we both groan. The angle sends a warm shock through me. I chase it, finding that rhythm—long, unhurried glides that keep me full and humming. My hands flatten on his chest. He watches me ride him, pupils blown, breath roughening as I move—up, down, a lazy grind that rubs exactly where I need it. The friction on my clit is soft at first, then sharper as I angle forward and he meets me with shallow, patient thrusts from below.
