Page 83 of Savage Surrender

Tristan eases out, his hand spread over my stomach as if he can hold me together from the outside. I cry out when the pressure relents. Freddie murmurs into my hair as he slips out too.

Emptiness.

I reach for Weller. He takes my hand and his thumb passes over my knuckles.

“What do you need? Thirsty? Hungry? There’s a pizza place not far.”

“I want you.”

The hesitation is all over his face, and I’m certain he’ll tell me I need a break. But then he removes his shirt, folds it once, and lays it over the chair. His pants follow. I watch the dark trail below his stomach disappear into his groin, then give up pretending I’m looking anywhere but at his cock.

Everyone seems to move away to make room for him.

Weller lies on his side facing me and slips one arm beneath my neck. His free hand travels over my ribs and hip, pausing before his fingertips brush carefully across my ass. Then he draws me close until my breasts press against his chest and his thigh fits between mine.

“Closer,” I whisper.

His arm tightens. “This is as close as I can get.”

“It’s not.”

“I think you’ve had enough.” His mouth touches mine, and it’s not a kiss meant to take or push. There’s no tongue demanding room or teeth catching my lip.

“Almost.”

The head of his cock brushes my swollen pussy and I flinch. I’m sore. Really sore. It feels like I just fucked a battering ram.

“I still need you.”

His fingers slide between us and test the slick mess the others left behind, touching me with none of Tristan’s calculated torment. He watches my face as one finger slips in, then a second, learning what my body can bear.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

He eases them deeper. I contract around the gentler intrusion; it’s a different kind of torment.

“Still?”

“Stop interviewing me.”

He kisses me as he enters. It’s painfully slow and tender. Nothing sharp enough to steal my thoughts. When he’s finally all the way inside me, he doesn’t move.

My body waits for the next thing. A hard thrust. Fingers on my clit. An instruction. There’s nothing. He tucks my face beneath his chin and holds me while his cock throbs deep inside me and the sound of the surf rolls through the open balcony door.

“Weller?”

He begins moving shallowly. I wrap around him with a soft, wet ache, and he repeats the movement at the same unhurried pace. He isn’t chasing the sounds out of me. When one slips free, he kisses my temple. When my breath catches, he waits for the next one.

Everyone else has gone maddeningly quiet.

Weller strokes my hair away from my sweaty face.

“You’re so precious to me, Bianca,” he whispers into my hair.

Get some rest, precious girl.

A sob comes out of nowhere, loud and horrifying, my mouth wrenched open against his throat. I clamp my lips shut, but the next one leaves me gasping.