Page 88 of The Savage

He catches it instantly.

His hand slides to my jaw, thumb stroking once, slow and certain. ‘Don’t,’ he warns, eyes burning into mine. ‘Don’t pull away into that place. I won’t fight Him for you, baby.’ His voice deepens into something possessive and terrifyingly sure. ‘Because He’ll lose.’

My breath fractures. And alarmingly, I’m beginning to think that for this suspended time, in this fragile, burning moment… Renzo will win.

‘Do you feel safe?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you feel mine?’

There’s no room in me for a lie. ‘Yes.’

‘And do you want me to be yours, angel?’

I don’t mean to say it. ‘Yes.’

He makes a sound that might be a prayer but is probably a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Then come for me, baby. Now.’ His finger plunges deeper. His other arm locks around me and the whole world shrinks to heat and pressure and the exquisite ache of holding on. Somewhere far away the sea keeps time; here, I set the beat and he urges me on with crude, rough, guttural words, guiding me until the language of it becomes simple as breath: again, more, please, there.

The crest builds faster and faster.

I feel it first as a brightening, then as a high wire strung through my body, humming with the promise that the only way forward is through. Fear flickers – I don’t know what waits on the other side. He feels the flinch and catches my face in his palm.

‘I’ve got you,’ he says. ‘Don’t run. Let it take you.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You can. It’s as simple and as magic as falling and trusting I’ll catch you.’

Something in me trusts the promise. I let go.

The wire sings, snaps, turns to light.

I break with a sob I don’t recognise as mine. The world floods white, then gold. My fingers claw at his shoulders; he gathers me close, swears into my hair, holds me through every shiver as if he can keep me from scattering.

‘That’s it,’ he breathes. ‘That’s it. Beautiful girl. Stay with me.’

I fall back in pieces and he’s there for every piece. When I can breathe again I realise I’m crying, not with sorrow but with relief so sharp it feels like pain. He kisses the wet from my cheeks, his own breath ragged, his restraint trembling.

‘Tell me,’ he says, hoarse. ‘What did it feel like?’

‘Like… like a door I didn’t know was locked opening onto sunlight,’ I say, dazed. ‘Like the first note of a hymn when the choir gets it right.’

He laughs, broken and delighted. ‘Leave it to you to make it holy.’ His self-control frays; I feel it, the tremor, the plea in his body.

He looks at me, asks without words. I answer without words, shifting, welcoming, giving back what he gave me, permission, trust, the quiet certainty of Yes.

I suck in a breath and the air in the room is thick with the scent of sweat and something else I realise is sex, the sheets tangled beneath us.

He hisses as I resettle in his lap and I jerk back. ‘Are you okay?’

‘You think anything’s going to stop me from doing what comes next?’

My eyebrows rise when I see he’s braced his broken arm against two pillows, but he’s able to move his wrist and hand, while his good hand is more than enough to guide me. Direct this just how he wants it to go.

And as I watch, his fingers retrace slow circles on my thigh, sending shivers up my spine even though I’m still trembling from the orgasm he just wrung out of me with nothing but his fingers and tongue.

His eyes are dark, hungry, locked onto me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at. And heavens, the way he watches me, like he intends on devouring me, makes my pulse flutter madly.